Finally feeling better, but not cured...

I got a job. I finally got a job. About a month ago, the week before Xmas, I was hired to start a new job at a local print shop. I never thought I'd work at a print shop, but as a graphic designer, it was always recommended that I do so. There is so much to learn, and I never thought in a million years, with the many years of experience in my field, that I'd be at a loss of what I'm doing. Obviously I was hired as a graphic designer / pre-flight specialist. Pre-flight? What's that?

That's what we do in the printing business as setting up files for the printers to execute for the client. I have a lot to learn, and right now, I'm clueless. I walked into my first day feeling confident, knowing with the 10+ years of graphic design under my belt, I thought I knew it all. 

Not the case.

Everyday I'm learning something new. I know this is good not only for my psyche, but my experience as a designer. This is what I needed to succeed in my field. While in college, professors always recommended to their design students of either an internship at a print shop, or better—a job. Several months ago, I had interviewed for a design position at another local print shop, only to be narrowed down to myself and another candidate. But unfortunately, I was not chosen. I was disappointed because I knew this would have been an ideal fit for me, but it just wasn't meant to be. Then several months later, I still remained unemployed.

Until now.

I knew during the interview that this is where I wanted to work. I knew right away after meeting the other designer and art directior, that it was where I wanted to be to further my career and experience. Then during the second interview with the production manager and the owner, it solidified my wishes. I walked out of that interview feeling more than confident, but assured that I would be offered the job.

And thankfully, I was right.

It wasn't even 30 minutes later that I received that anticipated call to start the following week. I was elated. I couldn't believe I was going to be employed once again. I knew I needed this to further my illness without feeling lonely and incompetent in what felt like eternal depression. I needed social interaction on a daily basis. I craved it.

Social interaction with other people out in the community than sitting by myself, everyday, in a dark loft waiting anxiously for my family to get home. There were days, however, that I admit I wanted to be by myself, but mostly I needed an adult conversation to further my intelligence. But, as any social person can imagine, speaking with my husband everyday and every night, only grew tiresome. Nothing against my husband, of course, but I wanted—and needed—to speak to a friend.

Once I started my job, it was apparent that this was the place for me. The owner of the company was always looking out for his employees, and my fellow co-workers were actually nice. They actually seemed genuine.They were considerate to one another. Something I just wasn't used to in my many years as an employee. 

No cattiness here.

I was happy. I was actually happy. Could this be a feeling I have waited for for so long? For once, I didn't have that overriding feeling of negativitiy; something I have experienced for many months now. I felt confident and I actually have a good feeling about this place, as well as my employer (the owner).

As I continue to feel good about this job, I will work hard and continue to be social with my co-workers, perhaps going out and having the opportunity of sitting down and having a beer together. It's what I have needed for so long. 

I need this to further my recovery, and although I have put my therapy sessions on hold, I will continue my medication regardless, because I want to feel good about myself as a person, as well as my job. 

Dammit, I deserve this.

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

Lack of Motherhood?

This past year, as I've mentioned numerous times, has been a tumultuous one for me. Mainly due to my biopolar disorder, and mostly because of my dad's illness and struggle with prostate cancer. As you know (if you've kept up with my prior posts), my father recently lost his battle with this horrible disease on Father's Day. But overall, my bipolar disorder took over my life this past year and made it worse than it's ever been since I was diagnosed in 2004.

As a result, my family, wifely and motherly duties have escaped me completely. I'm not questioning the fault in that, I'm not. I'm mature enough to know that it's wrong and for the most part, not involuntary. I take full responsibility. I can't blame my bipolar disorder on everything, including this, can I? As I look back, I feel like I've blamed my bipolar disorder on too much—if not everything—in my life and to be honest, I don't know if that's necessarily the right thing to do; or an excuse for that matter.

Even for me, being legitimately diagnosed, I've grown tiresome of these constant excuses and placing blame. However, I do know for the most part, it's what has caused my lack of support and most importantly, my lack of affection. Considering this has gone downhill for the past year and has become significantly worse, is unlike me because I have always been a very caring and doting mother; even a person in general when it comes to friends and other family members. It's how I've always been.

I love giving hugs, and I love the demonstrative affection that goes along with being a mother. Ever since my daughter was born, I couldn't get enough of her smiles, her giggles, her affection—because even then, she was always such a happy and cuddly baby with such affection, that you couldn't help but reciprocate, so naturally she grew into that as a pre-teen as well.

I used to love it, I used to love holding her and kissing her and hugging her until she couldn't take it anymore. It's just what my husband and I always did. But this past year dwindled down to a "leave me alone" approach. As it got significantly worse, I wanted to escape even more; I didn't want to hold anyone, or kiss anyone, or even hug anyone, and that's not like me. I have always been the opposite, not just to my daughter or husband, but everyone around me.

Why did that change? How could a disease like bipolar disorder dramatically change that? I wish I had the answer to this question, but I also never asked it at any of my therapy sessions or even brought it up to my psychiatric nurse either. Should I, or just leave well enough alone?

I don't know.

Even now, after the medication has finally started to take effect, my daughter will come up to me and want to tell me how much she loves me and hug me; she gives me her support every single day, but it only annoys me more. I feel guilty about this feeling and I know one day—soon—I will miss it and she will no longer offer it as she embarks into adolescence. Everything around her will change, and not just physically, because she will soon turn into a teenager and she will crave other activities in her life, not just hugging and telling mom she loves her, but worrying about her friends and of course, about boys.

I know I should appreciate it now and love every minute of it, but I don't. I used to, but I don't anymore. Does that necessarily make me a bad mother, or just bipolar? Again, I don't want to come up with these excuses anymore, it grows tiresome and since I'm getting better with the proper medication formula, I feel like I have no more space for excuses. But she's used to my prior behavior as an affection mother, so how can I explain to her now without hurting her, that mommy no longer wants to hug or kiss her anymore?

I just need to overcome it, right?

I know there are a lot of people suffering from bipolar disorder who feel the opposite when they're on their medication. They feel numb, stoic and even emotionless. For the first month, I felt the same way until it was noticeable that I did a complete turnaround of how I typically am. We didn't want that to go away, we just wanted to control the ups and downs of my mood—well, for the most part that was the goal, but I've noticed my lack of affection has gotten even worse and I have gotten even more distant. Neither my husband and daughter have confronted me with this turnaround, but I can see it in my daughter's eyes as I push back and I'm reluctant to offer it back. 

Nothing breaks my heart more than seeing the hurt in her eyes. Do I blame her? Of course not. As a result, I can see she's gravitating to my husband even more, which is not what I had always anticipated being the mother of a daughter. I want our relationship to mimic what I had with my mother, someone I can turn to when I got my period and when I had a problem with a boy.

I only hope she will feel the same way as time marches on, instead of turning to my husband for those constant feelings of support. Not me.

I want to overcome this recent problem that I have encountered, and only hope with the medication and with time, that I will know for certain it is my bipolar disorder that is causing this, not me pulling back. Because, isn't it my daughter who is supposed to pull back, and not me?

Please, let me get back to normal and be that warmhearted mother that I have always been, because I so desire to be what I once was, not what I am becoming.

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

Family.

This is a tough word for me to say. I love family, I do. Family means the world to me but these past several years have proved to me that family can drift apart. This is unfortunately a common problem among families these days. We grow up, we get married, we have children of our own, and then before you know it, life passes us by. Before you notice, we gravitate in our own direction and focus on our own lives thus ignoring what we had while growing up—an appreciation of sorts.


Separately.


When I was growing up, family was an integral part of my life. We had a small family, so that made us even closer. We were all living back east and all within an hour's drive from each other. Our parents were all very close and got together on a regular/weekly basis. My brother and I were at least 2-3 years apart in age with our cousins and repeated visits were common. It was the ideal situation as we were growing up.


Then when I was 9 years old, we moved out west because my father had a better career opportunity, but unfortunately this changed everything amongst our family. Although we were all still close as we all tried to stay in touch and enjoyed continual visits throughout the year, they weren't as periodic as they once were. As we got older, those visits dwindled significantly. 


I always missed that connection we had with my cousins, aunt and uncles, and spending quality time with them during the holidays and even just to visit for no reason, was something we all enjoyed to do. We took pleasure in those relationships. Back then, and it was fun and we were all very close.


Now those ties have changed. As I've gotten older, got married and had a child, I realize how important those family get togethers were. My daughter is the youngest of my husband's family and the youngest before her is 12 years older and my cousin has twin boys a year and a half older than her. She never had that closeness that I had with my cousins, and it's weird, very weird. My relatives still live back east, whereas I still live out west. My daughter hasn't even met my cousins' children, who are all close to her age, which has grown to become a disappointment in my life. My husband's family all live within an hour or so distance away, but still, we never see them, nor do we spend the holidays with them.


That saddens me. At least I would love to have the option to give my daughter that feeling of those glory days with my family that I was so lucky to have. But money is tight, and money is what will enable this "dream" to happen.


Sometimes I wonder if family could have helped me through my bipolar disorder; kept me busy. I honestly don't know, but I honestly doubt it. I just miss family all together and hope that someday we can all get together again and have our children meet.


Maybe someday soon.


Now that would make me happy.


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

Woes of Anniversary

My anniversary this past year was a tough one. We got married on November 5, so since it is around the holidays, this past anniversary turned into an unhappy one. Leading up to these months were tough for all of us, myself included. I had been through a lot, and knowing that our anniversary and the holidays were rapidly approaching, it was devastatingly scary for me. I knew I'd have to face it, and I knew I couldn't run away from it. It was right there in front of me like a shark at the depth of the ocean. I had nowhere to run and I couldn't escape.


For many years, I loved celebrating our anniversary. With the exception of my daughter's birthday, it was the one day of the year that was most special to us. Although we couldn't afford to travel or buy lavish gifts for each other, we still celebrated it with excitement and angst. Once we chose the restaurant we were both happy with and felt would be enjoyable for our celebratory evening, my husband was eager to call and make the reservation. 


Throughout the years for our anniversary, we would get a babysitter and enjoy it on our own, but the last 2 or 3 years, we decided to bring our daughter with us. We realized that she was a big part of our lives and felt she was why we were here and why we were together. She always enjoyed it as much as we did and took pride in participating with us. It brought us happiness.


We decided to eat at a local oyster & seafood bar that had recently opened several months prior, and it was only a few blocks from our loft. So aside from convenience, we figured we'd enjoy the new surroundings and experience. Since I had been wanting to eat there when it opened, it was the perfect choice. But something always came up, whether it be money or just time, we could never go. It seemed like there was always something; always a deterrent to keep us from going.


We didn't know how expensive it would be, so we ended up being conservative and would ultimately choose a more modest restaurant instead. This time, for our special day, my husband knew it'd be the perfect locale to honor our anniversary. He wanted to make me happy and make it unforgettable.

But this last anniversary was different. So very different.

I didn't want to be there and I didn't want to celebrate. I just wanted to curl up in a fetal position and cry. I wanted to be alone. But how? How could I be alone on a day that involved another person? It wasn't my birthday and it wasn't another frivolous holiday, it was OUR anniversary; it was our day.


Maybe on most occasions I could pull off the self-pitying fetal position, but this year was different. I really wanted to go, I really did. But with how I had been feeling the prior months, I knew it was a risk being there and bringing our daughter to go with us. But how could I say no? They were both trying so hard to make me happy and they wanted so badly to bring a smile to my face. So I did what any mother and wife would do during these circumstances—I sucked it up, and I went. 


This time, willingly.


What I would give to have it end there, but it didn't end happily. Not this time. At that point, I hadn't started hitting myself, so going home was not a scare nor was it a concern. However, my unhappiness was. Nothing could please me by this time, and nothing was "good enough."


All I did was complain about everything—the service, the food, the prices, the drinks—all of it. I couldn't find anything good about anything. As we were waiting anxiously for the check, I was sitting there tapping my leg as if I had to make an emergency run to the bathroom. I look back on that evening today, and realize how much I crave for a nice quiet evening such as that fateful night on our anniversary, and it saddens me. It only makes me realize how much pain I was in at that time. It was out of my control; it wasn't me back there. 


But is it too late to make amends with myself? Give myself some peace?


I don't know. I honestly don't. I realize that having bipolar disorder is out of my control; it's something I can't change. All I can do is continue my medication and realize that everyday will be a challenge, a challenge that I am ready and willing to embark on. A new day.


I now think to myself how lucky I was for having the luxury of spending a lovely evening at a delicious restaurant with my family, and how evenings like that are too few. After recently coming home from my father's funeral, I realize how he can no longer enjoy a delightful evening with his wife, or take advantage of a delicious meal at a sensational restaurant—these are things that he loved to do on many occasions, and can no longer do so.


That breaks my heart.


Is it a cliché to continually remind yourself of a common sentiment that "life is short?" Or should we actually take this advice and try and see the good in everything and everyone? Is it unrealistic to have such a positive attitude, or just absurd?


For me, the answer isn't that clear yet, but I hope it will be someday—soon! I am very anxious for that answer. I need clarity in my life. Especially now.


I desire nothing more than sitting in a restaurant with my family so we can enjoy the time we are spending there together, not look at what's going wrong, or what's right, just enjoy it; embrace it.  Whether or not the food is crap, service is slow or if the drinks are overpriced, will be irrelevant. I will only enjoy the time that I'm there with my family and take advantage of the precious time we have now and will continue to enjoy for the future.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter

My Rock

Who is my rock? If you've been following my posts, I think you would know the answer to that. 

One word...Husband.

Yup, during this past year has been a tumultuous one—for everyone in my family. Everything in my life this past year, not just my bipolar disorder, but my father's illness, our finances and of course, my brother's nutty behavior. If I were single, I honestly don't know how I would have handled it. Seriously. I'm a weak soul when it comes to situations like the above. I truly am. So having my husband there meant the world to me. Even friends here and there, but as I've also mentioned in prior posts, I am very selective with who I discuss these private issues with. I try to keep it as minimal as possible; I keep it simple.

There are many issues that I do trust with my friends, but one of them is definitely not my bipolar disorder or finances. I've learned that people tend to judge you for these "problems" and hold it against you—especially financial hardship—so I keep it on the down-low. 

When people asked me how my father was doing, or what happened with my brother, I don't go in depth other than the basic information. Even though I know they're only inquiring because they care, I still share with them as little as possible.

My husband is different. I realize that these situations involve us as a family, however, but he has stood by me through everything. He has taken over everything within our household so I would have limited, if not any, problems clouding my mind or issues that could affect my getting better from my bipolar disorder. He knows under these extenuating circumstances that my reaction was typically accentuated beyond the normal boundaries that most people react.


He has seen me through everything, including my tantrums that were clearly out of my control, but also my brother, my father's illness and our financial hardships that have collided with my bipolar disorder; even though he works two jobs, everyday he would walk through the door, and even though he would be physically exhausted, he still held his head up high and he was proud, proud of everything he had accomplished in life. That takes courage. Throughout all of this, like you could imagine, he was mentally exhausted as well.

My husband means the world to me, that much is certain, and I truly hope that while others are suffering and struggling with bipolar disorder and depression, they too would be lucky enough to have the same support system that I have been so blessed with. Nothing is more important than having someone that loves you and never judges you and help you.

So as I sit here drinking my cappuccino and writing this post, I am eager to head home tomorrow and be with my "rock" once again.


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

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Goodbye, Daddy.

February 16, 1936 - June 17, 2012

You Were There

Poem by Me

You were always there for me

Through thick and through thin

We always fought

We always cried

We always smiled

We always tried

Sometimes I hated you

But I always loved you

Sometimes you were disappointed in me

But you were always proud

You had a short temper

But I knew it was your way

What I would give to hear your temper today

I miss your voice

I miss your smile

I miss your laugh

I miss your charm

I miss your kindness

I miss your love

I will always look upon you from the wing of a dove

I'll never forget

I'll always remember

How close we became

When we were together

You easily got upset

But told me you loved me

You may have yelled

But said you were sorry

The time we spent together

Was precious and meaningful

  

Even when you were serious
You continued to smile

You were protective of me

But happy when you walked me down the aisle

I'll never forget when I saw you cry

You met your granddaughter for the first time

As she grew, so did your smile

Spending time with her was worth the while

These last days have been sad

But spending time with you made me glad

You were always there for me

And that I will never forget

Goodbye my daddy

You will always be in my heart

Forever

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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.

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Thou Shall Not Hit Thyself

OK, I will warn you, the following contents of this post may be difficult to comprehend, but in my heart, I truly hope you can empathize with my plight—especially if you yourself are also struggling with Bipolar Disorder. Please understand that this particular post will be very emotional for me, therefore it may take me a while to finish.

Here we go.

It started about 4 months ago. I started hitting myself in the frontal lobe of my head/brain. At first, it was purely out of agitation, but then it got worse. It turned into sadness and agitation at the same time. Clearly not a good mix of emotions. Sometimes, we do it not for attention—because most of the time, nobody was home while I was doing it—we do it because like my therapist told me, it's as though I am attempting to knock the thoughts out of my head. Really, is there any other explanation. For now, that was good enough for me since I continually blamed myself for being a "psycho" (excuse me for using this insensitive misused term).

Before I knew what was happening and the explanation of it all, I blamed myself. I kept thinking to myself Bipolar Disorder was a load of crap. Kind of like the whole "that won't happen to me" way of thinking, I never thought it would happen to me and it'd be completely within my control.

That's complete and total bullshit.

The last several months of my recent actions have proved otherwise. 

As it started, I knew in my mind that something wasn't right, but I continued to do it over and over. As the days, weeks, and even months progressed, it was getting signicantly worse. To the point, I unfortunately worked myself up in this state of mania in front of both my husband and my 12 year old daughter. 

Not good.

Of course, it freaked both of them out—to the point of being scared shitless. Can I blame them? Of course not. Had I seen either of them doing the same thing, I honestly don't know what I would do. My husband is my rock!

It's amazing the strength that came with hitting myself. My husband would attempt to restrain me so I would stop the hitting, only to push him away with such force, that he was taken back (no pun intended). Please understand, my husband is a very strong, in shape man. He bench presses 300 lbs, so for me to have the strength and ability to push him off me, came as a shock to him.

As it continued, it gradually got worse. I turned to using objects to hit myself, instead of the palm of my hands—always in the head in the same spot—to somehow make the impact harder, more of a statement. At least that's how I interpret it now that I look back (since the last time was only last week). I honestly don't know why I hit myself. My therapist asks me this regularly, but I can't seem to give her an answer. I only wish I knew the true answer, but I can't. 

The worst was a little over a month ago. I gave myself two black eyes with a soda can while it was crushed, which left my forehead with many scratches—unexplainable scratches to my daughter, as well as the black eyes—try coming up with a lie for that one. With that same soda can I was able to give myself the two black eyes. Afterwards, I kept looking at myself in the mirror like I was a horror. A freak in a horror show.

That was the worst it got. Now don't get me wrong, my regular hitting sprees were more of bumps on my forehead and bruises on my wrists and on the side of my head. But this definitely was the clincher for me. The worst I had ever done. And please, don't misunderstand me as any form of hitting yourself is bad, it's not healthy and the fact that I was doing this to myself, definitely required immediate medical attention.

It's hard to reminisce about this as I sit down in front of my computer and type these words on screen. Reading them over and over as if I'm writing about someone else. Not me. 

I even had to step away while I was writing this morning before I was ready to sit down and continue again. Writing this was a reminder, a reminder of what I have done to myself.

I never could understand why cutters cut themselves. I always thought it was their way of getting attention. Maybe for the most part, it was/is, but now that I have repeatedly hit/hurt myself in the head, I now know that for a lot of those cutters, that is most likely not the case.

I am done now. Finished talking about this—at least at this time. Maybe as I continue to write this blog, time will have passed, my medication will be working, and I can look back with pride; pride that I have overcome this illness. But for now, I am not there yet. I felt it was important to get it out there—even if I'm the only one reading it at this time.

A side note—If you do this to yourself—whether it's hitting, cutting, or anything similar, please see someone. It's your brain, the chemicals in your brain that is causing this. You're not a "psycho," as you're probably suffering from an illness like BD and the medication can and will help you. Obviously I am not a psychiatrist, psychologist or therapist, but obviously this behavior is not normal either—please see someone regardless!

Hang in there!

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