Fifty Shades of Bipolar Disorder

To even narrow this number down to fifty would be a challenge. There are so many different facets of bipolar disorder, that most of us—not even those of us suffering from this disease—will ever lay witness to. For most 'victims', it's buried deep within our brains and our souls, never to come out for the world to see. We tend to crawl deep inside our bodies in hopes of never being caught, ultimately to be left alone instead.

As we know, there are many ups and downs to bipolar disorder and that is in fact, what bipolar means—to be caught in different waves of mania as most struggle through what feels like, sheer hell. I can honestly say that I have experienced these waves of hell over this past year and a half alone. Even though I've had my family side-by-side with me every step of the way, I was alone while suffering these demons deep within my inner being. I never knew how to climb out of what felt like, the shell of my body. It was a challenge and therefore, a constant daily struggle.

I have recently learned that bipolar disorder has become a common disease among people of all ages, not just myself, but many others as well. As I was going through many stages of mania, I felt as if my world was crumbling below me, thus enabling me to always consider random thoughts of suicide. How would I do it? Why should I do it? And worse, when will I do it. There were times that I wanted to race upstairs into my kitchen and pull out a large, sharp kitchen knife only to free myself from the recurring reminders of pain. Thankfully, I didn't have the courage and eventually I would overcome these evil spirits that permeate my body everyday. Realizing that suicide is not only the answer, but a permanent effect of what my family would have to endure for eternity.

The feelings of what I struggle through with my bipolar disorder is a constant reminder of how sometimes, my medications don't always work. They're not always the answer to pure happiness, nor is it the end-all cure-all. Am I on the wrong meds? Perhaps. But according to my 'drug dealer,' they're the best that I could be on. Maybe a little tweaking here and there, but mostly an excellent concoction of a pharmaceutical mix.

I always daydream of how my life will improve, and how I could be filled with pure content. Yes, I'd be satisfied with that, considering how common it would be to be filled with pure happiness? Does it even exist, or are people just walking around fooling the rest of us, giving us the notion of envy? My cousin, for example, is most likely one of those people. She is, however, in a different position than I am, and will ever be. She and her husband are extremely wealthy. Oh, I don't mean the kind of wealth that most people are accustomed to, but a fortune that is only a small percentage of the population. They are worth hundreds of millions of dollars, therefore giving them the freedom of unlimited travel and lack of worry. I don't expect anywhere near that, but only a feeling of content and no worry of finances would satisfy my need of happiness. I realize that money is not always the answer to exuberance, but it sure would help.

If only.

Am I green with envy? Absolutely. Throughout my cousin's entire life, she has never had to worry about bills, finances, working or the like. My aunt and uncle have always been well off, consequently providing her the life of luxury. After marrying her husband, his business venture became a successful one, therefore giving them the privilege of infinate affluence. Is that fair? Mostly, it is. He worked hard. He didn't grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth like my cousin had the advantages of, ultimately providing him with the means of such wealth. I respect him for that.

Perhaps it's my bipolar disorder that provides me with such envy and obsession to their situation, but I know it's just mostly jealousy instead. I know my meds, or even hypnotherapy, couldn't solve these feelings or eliminate them completely. Maybe I'll be provided with control, or just a way of moving forward with my life without looking at them as if they're so much better than me, just because of their wealth. 

I know there are so many dimensions of bipolar disorder, and I know they affect me in a way, that pulls me beyond my control, but I still continue to persevere in order to become 'normal' again, instead of a constant feeling of resentment. The ups and downs of my frequent manic episodes. If not for myself, but for my family as well. They deserve a stress-free life where walking in the door is not a walking-on-eggshell feeling of worry, waiting to see if the smile on my face is evident to provide them with relief, instead of wondering if I'll explode into fits of anger. 

The many shades of bipolar disorder will one day pull me out of the continuous spirits of mania. I must have confidence that I will heal, and I will get better.

Or I'll go 'crazy.'

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

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.

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   

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.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

The End of My Tunnel

It's official, today I feel as though I have reached my threshold—the end of my tunnel. I feel as though my life is wasted and I am no longer challenged. As if I am oppressed. How do I overcome this? How can I excel within my soul and my psyche to fight this constant emotion? Is it even possible at this point, from someone who is in their late 40's? To some of you, that may seem young, but to most, it's beyond a mid-life crisis. I have been experiencing this for over a year now and I can't seem to shake myself from it. I wish it was like a bad dream and I could just wake up, instead of living it every single day. 

I sit here at my new job bored and unchallenged. I feel as though my life is being wasted and everything I worked so hard to achieve while in college and beyond graduation has escaped me and slipped through my fingers; it has become out of my grasp. Everything is out of my control, including my bipolar disorder. It's clear my medication isn't working as I had hoped, and only creating a constant depression that is beyond anything I had ever imagined. A deep decline within my soul.

I should be happy, I should be grateful and I should love my life. I have a loving, wonderful husband and a beautiful healthy daughter—so why can't I appreciate this and just accept it as being a part of my life? Why can't I just realize that the majority of the population is worse off than me and just move forward and try to make the best of it? To continue on as part of my personal life cycle.

'Why' seems to be the question of my life these days. It seems I am always asking 'why.'

I'm tired of asking this question, and instead, I want an answer. Nothing embellished, I just want to know that everything will be OK and my life will persevere regardless of what job I'm at or whether or not we're ever rich or even if we're poor, that life will still go on and I'll be happy. I'll be thankful for my life and appreciate and relish my family time everyday instead. But I can't. Alternately, I dwell on my life and it makes me even more depressed than I had ever imagined.

This slump that I'm in won't go away and it's making me exhausted; I am emotionally exhausted. I never thought in my wildest dreams that repeating that phrase would ever escape my lips or even an emotion that would ever be consummated in my life. 

But it does. Every single day for the past year. Or, at least it feels that way.

Last night I had a long discussion with my husband about my job and how unhappy I was. He understands, but at the same time, he doesn't. He's trying to wrap his fingers around why I am like this, because I know for my husband, he too is emotionally exhausted just from living my personal hell along side me. It affects him too. He knows that in all the years we have been together, I have never reacted like this or have ever let a job affect me the way this job has, in this manner; I have never been this depressed.

He asks that I give the job some time, at least until he can accumulate a clientele from his new position as a personal trainer. I promised him I would, as I had no intentions of just easily giving up and walking away. I've always been responsible that way and I always seem to think logically, which I was told just the other day from my psychiatric nurse—who I like to refer to as my 'drug dealer'—that my logical thinking and planning is a "gift." Maybe an attribute I should grow to admire, instead of criticize. 

I will try and honor my husband's wishes and trudge everyday at a job that I loathe and a job that I come home depressed from, I will do it and I will make my husband proud. For our finances, it's a necessity. It'll give us that one little freedom of paying our bills and our attempt to live like the rest of society in an honest manner.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Dreams

Lately, It seems I am having a consistent theme with my dreams—my father's death. But these dreams are unique because they're not dreams about him in memory, but of him dying—whether he realizes it or not—and how he's come back to life. Either he will die again after coming back to life, or will simply just come back. One dream, which I have always believed in, is apparent that he was reincarnated and was completely aware of this. Even went as far as saying he will go back because he was reincarnated as a 7 month old baby.


As these dreams increase with the nights, I wake up feeling sad; wake up missing him more and more with each passing day. Aren't  these feelings of grief supposed to subside with time, and not increase? I admit, and almost ashamed and remorseful, because my crying has diminished a great deal, but I still miss him regardless. I still wish and hope he was here, or even if there was a way that I could at least know he's OK; some sort of solace for me—a sign.


Is that selfish? At this point, I don't care, I just wish I could have some sort of manifestation from him, some indication that he's OK and he is no longer suffering. But I know in my heart that I will never receive this—unless that's what these recurring dreams are about, or just unfinished business I may have with him. 


One last word.


I know I will never have the answer to that underlying question that seems to control my mind and my heart. My dreams are precious to me now and hope I will never forget them, because at this point, I remember every one of them in full detail, as if I had them yesterday. I still see his face clearly and I still see his bright smile because he was always so full of life and energy, and hearing about him play golf, a sport he idolized made me happy.


When he was first diagnosed with prostate cancer two years ago, he had to stop playing golf not long thereafter because of the treatments. They significantly weakened him and therefore playing on a 9 or 18 hold golf course would have been impossible for him. That saddened me the most because I know how much he loved it. This one sport that he enjoyed over the years and brought him so much joy.


I still miss him and I hope these dreams will only continue and not diminish. I don't want to ever forget him or his smile; his vibrance. 


With these dreams his memory will persevere in my heart.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Sex, Bipolar & Videotape

OK, maybe not videotape, but it's a certainly a catchy title, right? A little homage to the 80's movie, Sex, Lies & Videotape, so why not? I bet it caught your attention either way.


If so, then my ploy worked.


I talk about sex and bipolar simply because I have found in the last several months, my libido has diminished a great deal. Now, this is not typical of my behavior so I attribute it to my new medication. I have talked about this before with my "drug dealer" to no avail. He even tried decreasing my medication dosage but then we found it wasn't working for my mood stabilizing. Which is better to give up, my sex life (or lack thereof) or my moods and depression? Well, clearly I chose the former but I still miss the sex life nevertheless.


Am I the only one who experiences these changes with bipolar disorder medication, or should I just chalk it up to my aging and menopause? Aside from the guinea pig disorder that I have been associating with lately, I don't know which to blame it on.


At this point, does it matter? Probably not. Either way, the outcome is the same.


For me, it's easier to blame it on my meds, because let's face it, do I really want to condemn my increasing of age? Probably not. But it sounds damn good, doesn't it?


Perhaps this is an inappropriate personal 'problem' to discuss out here in the blogosphere, but since it's an anonymous blog, I think I'm safe here. Where else can I be honest and upfront about a situation such as my lack of sexual desire?


As if my life hasn't been altered enough as it is, now I have to worry about a decreased sex drive? How can life be so cruel? I love my husband very much, and I am still very much attracted to him, so I know for certain that making love to him is something I still enjoy doing—on a regular basis—but lately, that hasn't been the case. Perhaps I should just make a "date" with my husband and see where it goes? Spice things up, if you will.


I won't go into detail about how long it's been, but trust me when I say, it's been a while. Damn you bipolar medication! How could you do this to me!!!


I think as I try and succumb to the quintessential aphrodisiac—oysters, anyone?—perhaps that'll get me back into the groove of things and renew my aging as something exciting—not scary—and maybe even an attempt to play the cameo of promiscuous behavior? Obviously, I don't intend on cheating on my husband, but I have recommended a little role playing here and there, just for fun. Not sure that's his thing, but I think at this point, he'll try anything.


I'm game for whatever, so for now, I will just lay low and see where it takes me.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter

The Tide Will Turn

I feel great, I really do.


Ever since I started taking my medication, I feel wonderful. Yes, there are those occasional blips that encompass me on a daily basis, but overall, they're working! I never want to stop. There are still days as I regularly pop those pills in my mouth, that I often ask myself, "why do I need to take so many pills?" It's a tough 'pill' to swallow—no pun here—but I know if I don't take them, I will go down that rocky road where I was heading before. 


And it wasn't good.


I try to remind myself that we're blessed to have such spectacular health benefits; we're lucky, very lucky. If it weren't for my husband's benefits, we wouldn't have the means to buy my meds and I know what a downward cycle that would bring me back into. That would not only be devastating, but shattering as well. I tell my husband everyday that we need to somehow prepare for the possibility—albeit a low possibility—that if he were to get laid off or fired, what would we do? Yes, he'd collect unemployment benefits, but what about health insurance? No such thing as health unemployment benefits. Oh ya, it's called COBRA. 


More like NO-BRA. No bra because there's no support. Your premiums are double if not more than what you were paying while working with that company, so where's the coverage there? 


Just like wearing 'No Bra.' Ultimately, we'd be screwed.


The last few weeks consisted of crying and fright. Those tears were all for my father. Nothing else. I didn't want to stop the ache because I wanted to continue to cry for the man that raised me. The man that I looked up to. I only felt it was justified and the right thing to do. 


My husband had recommended that I take an anti-anxiety pill, but I refused. I told him this was legitimate, this is what I needed to feel, not numbness, but true sadness for someone I will miss and love for the rest of my life. And you know what, I'm OK with that.


Some tears are just worth shedding.


I believe that the next few months will be nothing shy of a challenge. As I received my very last unemployment check today, I now know that I can start working again and this time, I'm ready to face it head on. I'm ready to go to work and be surrounded by people in a socially thriving environment. I know I need this,but at this point, I have no other option. I must work.


The question is, am I emotionally ready? Can I do it?


As they say, only time will tell. I know once I get back into the groove of things, I will be ready and willing to move forward. I have to, because if I don't, what will happen? Will I go into a bipolar remission? Or just accept it as being a part of life and continue to plug away? 


Again, only time will tell.


I'm ready to face rejection and I'm ready to face success. I need to. I have to. But I admit, it will be tough. My life is like a tidal wive. As I continue to surf, different waves will come and go. The same goes as I grieve my father's death—they will come and go, and some days it'll be OK, other days there'll come a huge wave aiming towards me that I know I'll have to ride, that I can't avoid, but other waves will be small and minimal. Those waves I know I'll be able to anticipate without consequence. Basically, I know that everyday will be a different experience for me. 


Like life in general.


For me, it's a little more challenging than that, but I know as the "waves" come and go, so will my attitude. I will get better and then my tide will turn.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Crappy Holidays

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

Except for this past holiday season. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Start a new tradition.

Only 6 more months to go.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ha, I wish.

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

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

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

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

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

He was right, 100% right.

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

Or try to.

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

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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.

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