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.

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

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

Bipolar Menopause

You got it—I found out last year that my blood levels were consistent with menopause.


Oh crap.


In the midst of my bipolar madness, I am also experiencing the "joys" of menopause. At first, I thought wow, maybe it's the menopause causing all of my depresson, sadness, crying and hitting? Nope. Although it does contribute to menopause, it's not the sole reason why I am suffering from my bipolar disorder. It definitely accentuates it, but not the cause of it.


Ugh. Damn.


As I continued to enjoy my period-free bliss, I quickly realized that menopause wouldn't be as easy as I had hoped. Aside from the occasional night sweats (at that point) I figured it would be a positive step for me as I embarked on 'womanhood.' 


Yeah, right.


I hated it—hated every minute of it. I knew what going through menopause meant. It meant I was getting old; to the point that I had already reached middle-age. So to add to my lovely mid-life crisis, I was going through menopause as a constant reminder of my "old age." In my mind, I felt deprived and basically screwed.


It's tough, with the flowing of emotions circulating through my veins, it was a harsh reality for me. I wanted to embrace it, but I just couldn't. I wanted to wake up and know that I was 30 years old again, not late 40's. Why do I feel like my life has passed me by at a rapid pace? Why do I feel like it was wasted? I should be wallowing in this peaceful tranquillity of no longer suffering from menstrual cramps every month since the age of 15. I should be finally moving forward with my life instead of dreading it. But I just couldn't. I didn't want to. I wanted to drown in self pity and the dream and hopes of going back in time. Time machine anyone?


What was wrong with me?


As if my bipolar disorder wasn't bad enough, I had to deal with my flooding of hormones on a daily basis as well? I hate my life and I hate this disease. I hate how women are constantly reminded of growing 'old.' Tell me, what do men have to deal with? Baldness? A rounded gut to remind them of eating a bit healthier and working out until they're sweating profusely? Gray hair? Umm, we have to deal with that as well. No pass there. At least we don't look ridiculous when dyeing our hair to cover the gray—but I only attribute that to wearing makeup to mask our pale skin. Unlike men who think the comb over will only enhance their hair, instead of looking hysterical and foolhardy? Still, that's a personal choice, not something they can't avoid. 


Is life contemptible? It only reminds us how cruel life can be to a woman. Aside from the joys of pregnancy (ha, not me) and creating a new life, it basically sucks. Oh, and let's not forget the sagging and heading 'south' of our breasts. Gotta love gravity!


Lovely.


All I know is this, I can't go back, regardless of how often I pray and wish, but I can move forward with my life. Or at least try to. Can I change my life? For the most part, yes. We are in control of our destiny and our dreams—well, to a certain extent of course. I'm hoping that someday soon I will climb out of this mid-life funk and move forward and embrace my aging instead of crying over it—ugh, that word again—instead of being depressed from it. It's a part of life that I can't wriggle out of, and I can't escape it.


I love my wrinkles. 


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

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

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

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody can.

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

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

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

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

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

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