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.

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Go Away

I feel awful, I really do. Almost to the point of guilt. How could I feel this way? Why am I such a loner when it comes to guests? I've never been a gracious hostess; in fact, I've always been frustrated because I never know how to act as a mannerly hostess, or how to entertain them or what to do. This time, it was the worst it's ever been. Our loft is small, only 1200 square feet, therefore, having any overnight guests—especially beyond one night—is tight. And challenging as well.

My mom had just arrived and because of monetary restrictions, was unable to stay at a hotel during her visit. At first, I loved the idea, but soon realized not long thereafter that it would become disheartening. I hate that she's a few states away and alone since my father's death, so having her visit was an ideal recommendation. Since I've been bugging her to come visit or even sell her house and move here, it was only a matter of time that she would take me up on my offer to come stay with us for a few days. She loves where she lives, and knows that moving away right now would force her to leave her comfort zone of her 'home.'

Since she came in last week, I was excited to see her and spend quality time with her since I was there when my father died. But after a day of her being here, I was becoming impatient and I was dissatisfied with her visit. I didn't know what to do and didn't know where to take her. I live in a small college town, therefore the activities are limited. At least I think so. Since we only live in a 2 bedroom loft, she had to sleep in my daughter's room while my daughter was upstairs sleeping on the couch. She didn't mind because she understood that my mother is on a limited budget so staying at a hotel was not an option.

At first, I welcomed her with open arms, but upon her arrival—not even an hour of her being here—I already wanted her to go back home to leave me alone. It wasn't even 20 minutes after picking her up from the airport that she was driving me crazy. No pun intended. So what to do? I had 4 long days ahead of me and knew after such a short period of time, that I would be frustrated with her presence. The very presence in which I invited her.

Since she arrived in the morning and upon dropping her suitcase off at our loft, we immediately went shopping as moms and daughters typically do. She knew I've been looking for a job, whether it was full time or part time, so as we were visiting one of the clothing stores, she learned that this particular store was hiring. I am a 47 year old woman, and she is 75, so as I continued to try on a few pair of jeans, she instantly announced, not quietly, I may add, that I was interested in a job there. Needless to say, I was mortified and embarrassed. I wanted to run out of there as fast as I could in hopes that the salesgirl wouldn't notice my instantaneous red blushing face.

How could she? How could she embarrass me like that as if I was a young teenager too shy to inquire within? As a manic bipolar woman, I literally wanted to scream. I wanted to smack her across the face as if she was a woman who approached me and started a fight. But I knew the consequences thereafter, so instead, I just chose to acknowledge my interest in a job, and because thankfully they only accept applications through their online website so I could hide behind the computer screen.

After that, I knew I would never apply at this store, simply because of my humiliation in fear of being recognized from this horrific day. How could she? Doesn't she know that I'm a manic bipolar woman, dealing with daily fits of mania? Once we left the store, I made it clear and well known of her embarrassment, hoping she'd understand that what she did was not only wrong, but awkward at the same time. She was remorseful and immediately apologized.

It didn't make it right, but it made it better knowing that she would never react that way again. Regardless of how good the job may appear to be.

As I continued to be a gracious host, I put my selfish tendencies aside and realized, my mother is now alone, and I am the only family she has—aside from my aunt and uncle whom she regularly keeps in touch with that live in New York. She needs the comfort and security of knowing that I am here for her, which I always will be. I think it's normal that a daughter gets impatient with a parent, because I know there are times where my daughter does the same to us, and will most likely get worse as she grows older.

It's the cycle of life. But how we choose to act is another story.

I love my mom and I will always be here for her.

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