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

 

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!

Bipolar Gal on Twitter