As I fill myself and my home with constant Xmas "cheer," a depression came over me like no other time of the year. It's expected to fill your tree (or in my case, a decorated ladder in lieu of a tree) with presents and happiness. For us, that wasn't the case. We were unable to buy each other gifts, nor were we able to buy the plethora of gifts that we usually buy for our daughter that has become a tradition every year. Even during Hanukkah, my daughter and I created a tradition of lighting the menorah as well as purchasing her gifts everyday during the 7 day celebration.
It was hard for me to not be able to adhere to this annual tradition this year. It's been a tough year, both financially and emotionally. Being unemployed as well as losing my unemployment benefits in early July, only made that worse for all of us.
They say that Xmas presents are not supposed to define us, as it's supposed to be about family and love, but when you're one of the few—although it feels that way—who cannot take advantage of the giving tradition, it makes you feel sad, thus inept of this holiday observance. It makes you feel inadequate. Especially when there's a child involved. As parents, you want nothing more than to provide them with gifts, only to see their face as they open the wrapping paper in anticipation of seeing what will be hiding underneath. Even if she did ask for such presents for her Xmas list.
This year only brought disappointment. If not for my daughter (at least she didn't show it), but for us. Both of us wanted to provide her with what we've given her in the past—a bright smile and an unexpected surprise.
As we both sat there and gazed at her 'amazement,' I felt as though I was being jipped out of something that typically brought me a smile. Because I had no gift to open, no gift to rip open the wrapping paper and shaking the small bright box, I was sad and disappointed, if only for myself, and not my daughter or husband. Again, I know Xmas is not about gifts, but about togetherness that a family brings, I felt despaired at the same time regardless.
Does that make me selfish? Shouldn't I have sat there and been happy for our love and health instead? On that day, Xmas day, all I felt was resentment. Resentful that my husband doesn't make enough money to provide us with a plethora of gifts and surprise, only to be felt as though we were nothing; we were nobody in comparison.
I love my husband very much, but the last few months I have felt unhappiness instead. A feeling of loneliness and forlorn. I miss our 'marriage' and I miss the happiness we once felt as a couple. Now it only feels like we're roommates; roommates with a child. Sex has become inconsistent and dissatisfying. It's a rare act that has brought me despondency therefore has only pushed me away from what typically brings love to a marriage. Divorce has permeated my mind everyday, but what would I do without him at the same time?
I don't know.
I know if I walked away, I'd end up being unhappy, or would I? Solitude has always been something I've enjoyed, but on my terms only. My husband has always understood this therefore allowing me to go away for a few days to visit friends or relatives. Whereas most spouses may not accept this as part of their marriage. Isn't that why we get married to begin with, to spend time with that person and include them in their life? For me, that hasn't always been the case. Obviously that changed a great deal once my daughter was born, but for the most part, it never changed how I felt.
Recently, money has prevented me from taking advantage of such feelings, so I've only gotten worse in my confinement and resentment towards him. I know this is wrong, and I know I shouldn't take this out on me as my unemployment and recent lack of benefits has been a large part of that, but I have felt as though I have been deprived of something that has been so meaningful to me over the past several years as a result of this.
I know as time goes by, with my recent job, that will change a great deal. It'll take time as we catch up with bills that have recently snowballed into a large sum of payment every month, into a normal American household. Paying our bills every month, living a happy fulfilling life on a regular, daily basis.
I must, and I will. If only for the sake of my family and my marriage.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Showing posts with label twitter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label twitter. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Out of My Control
As I sit here pondering the inevitable question in my mind, while enjoying my morning cappuccino, my head is spinning around in circles and butterflies are once again, fluttering inside of me. Certain circumstances are always out of my grasp only to be out of my control—again. I don't know if it's my obsession getting the best of me like it always does these days, or if it's just disappointment and worry. My mind wanders aimlessly into this seemingly obsessed hole stuck in my brain, that it won't close up with thoughts of contentment instead.
Recently, certain events have changed all of that, and I don't know how to overcome them. Do I walk away from it completely or just deal with it like any adult learns to deal with? I want to escape from all of it because the constant overwhelming musings of what the possible ifs are quite simply, driving me crazy. It must stop and it must stop now.
But how?
It's not supposed to fade, but only flourish instead, as these past several months have only made me happy and secure in what it has become. Now that certain events have changed all of that—albeit in my mind only—it has, as a result, become bothersome in my mind. An obsession of sorts.
I worry about the inevitable replacement; something that will ultimately become out of my control. I can't control what may or may not happen simply because I am not within an earshot to control it. I can only sit back and hope for the best, and possibly prepare for the worst.
If you've seen the movie "Someone Like You" with Ashley Judd and Hugh Jackman, perhaps you'll know what I'm getting at. Throughout this movie, Ashley Judd's character, Jane, discusses the possibility (if not in a non-fiction sort of explanation) of a "New Cow Theory." This 'theory' explores a straightforward approach to the probability of the inevitable replacement of one person (or in this case, one cow) to another. Someone new, if you will.
The "Old Cow Theory" implies that as an 'old cow,' the boredom and excitement of this regular 'relationship' has gotten old; therefore, the spark has diminished. Whereas with a 'new cow,' the delight and newness of such 'theory,' has permeated one's thought process, therefore enabling this person to gravitate towards them even more. The pleasure and chemistry overwhelmed them in a state of ecstasy, if not pleasure.
Without divulging too much information here, mainly in fear of being "exposed," take it from me that mainly, due to unusual circumstances, there is literally nothing I can do to change this person's mind, because it is literally out of my grasp. What happens, happens.
So as I continue to obsess about it, how do I handle it? A part of me wants to walk away as an easy current solution, if only for me, in hopes of healing and moving forward with my life instead of the obsession that fills my mind and fills my soul everyday. Or perhaps just take a step back and let it fade away naturally. I know if I choose either scenario, I will be hurting in the process.
Like a bandaid, I know the former would only be the easiest—if not the most difficult—resolution in order to be happy and to not worry about the possibility of the inevitable. Time will encourage such a decision and knowing in my heart it must be done, but shall it be handled sooner or later, or immediately as a way of obtaining pure happiness and lack of worry. Eventually, to free my mind and free my heart.
That is the question I must continually ask myself on a regular, daily basis. At least until I have the courage and wherewithal to decide ultimately, what is best for me, and only me.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Recently, certain events have changed all of that, and I don't know how to overcome them. Do I walk away from it completely or just deal with it like any adult learns to deal with? I want to escape from all of it because the constant overwhelming musings of what the possible ifs are quite simply, driving me crazy. It must stop and it must stop now.
But how?
It's not supposed to fade, but only flourish instead, as these past several months have only made me happy and secure in what it has become. Now that certain events have changed all of that—albeit in my mind only—it has, as a result, become bothersome in my mind. An obsession of sorts.
I worry about the inevitable replacement; something that will ultimately become out of my control. I can't control what may or may not happen simply because I am not within an earshot to control it. I can only sit back and hope for the best, and possibly prepare for the worst.
If you've seen the movie "Someone Like You" with Ashley Judd and Hugh Jackman, perhaps you'll know what I'm getting at. Throughout this movie, Ashley Judd's character, Jane, discusses the possibility (if not in a non-fiction sort of explanation) of a "New Cow Theory." This 'theory' explores a straightforward approach to the probability of the inevitable replacement of one person (or in this case, one cow) to another. Someone new, if you will.
The "Old Cow Theory" implies that as an 'old cow,' the boredom and excitement of this regular 'relationship' has gotten old; therefore, the spark has diminished. Whereas with a 'new cow,' the delight and newness of such 'theory,' has permeated one's thought process, therefore enabling this person to gravitate towards them even more. The pleasure and chemistry overwhelmed them in a state of ecstasy, if not pleasure.
Without divulging too much information here, mainly in fear of being "exposed," take it from me that mainly, due to unusual circumstances, there is literally nothing I can do to change this person's mind, because it is literally out of my grasp. What happens, happens.
So as I continue to obsess about it, how do I handle it? A part of me wants to walk away as an easy current solution, if only for me, in hopes of healing and moving forward with my life instead of the obsession that fills my mind and fills my soul everyday. Or perhaps just take a step back and let it fade away naturally. I know if I choose either scenario, I will be hurting in the process.
Like a bandaid, I know the former would only be the easiest—if not the most difficult—resolution in order to be happy and to not worry about the possibility of the inevitable. Time will encourage such a decision and knowing in my heart it must be done, but shall it be handled sooner or later, or immediately as a way of obtaining pure happiness and lack of worry. Eventually, to free my mind and free my heart.
That is the question I must continually ask myself on a regular, daily basis. At least until I have the courage and wherewithal to decide ultimately, what is best for me, and only me.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Does Happiness Exist?
For most people, perhaps it does. But for me, I'm not so sure. As I gaze at my life, I recognize that happiness should exist for me, but most of the time, it doesn't. Am I selfish? Am I expecting too much? Perhaps.
I expect to be happy, and I expect to surround myself in a world of content, only to be disappointed instead. I'm lucky to have a loving, supporting husband, and a healthy daughter who have both accepted my bipolar disorder without judgment and resentment, because they love me regardless. I know my outbursts have only saddened them, instead of angered them as most people would deal with such torment. For most families, I imagine this would only be the case. Not for me, however, so why can't I be appreciative instead of questioning the result of my happiness?
I know for one to ask if happiness exists is the million dollar question we all ask ourselves, if not an expectation we all want to grasp. With the fear of losing it all, I only want to be thankful for the support I have received instead of questioning it on a daily basis.
I've always believed—albeit wrongly—that happiness cannot and does not exist for me. Perhaps I'm being pessimistic, but in my heart, it can't. Can it? I look at people and their lives, their families, and their careers, and they all seem happy and satisfied. With me, I'm not so sure. I've had many jobs over the years and I honestly cannot think of one that I've been completely in love with. On the contrary, I've only felt dissatisfaction instead. With all of them.
How can that be? Is it so difficult to feel happiness and fulfillment? For most people, they would look down upon their lives and be thankful for everything they have been blessed with, whereas for me, I'm the opposite. It seems that my job situation won't escape me. I've had to go backwards instead of forward with my career. My current job isn't in my field, but only a job I've held for years as I battled my way through college. What is the point of my degree? Why did I bother? I've always been an advocate of the regurgitating effects of an education—that it's never a waste. But this time, I'm not so sure.
I'm lucky to have such a supportive family, that much I'm grateful for. But our finances and my job situation have hindered this feeling of satisfaction which continuously override the lack of happiness in my life. As I continue to daydream and wonder what life would be like without the worry of funds, I often wonder if we'll ever be financially secure in our lives, or are we destined to live the life of struggle as we wrestle our way through a web of destruction? I know I should be grateful for our lives and what we have with each other would be the easier way to go, instead of dreading on what we don't have, but instead, what we do have.
Most people say that money should not define us, but only to make us indebted to what we've been blessed with to make our lives that much easier. However, I always seem to battle with the continuous negative thoughts of unhappiness. We know that's not right, and we all know that money does not make us happy, but the jealousy of such a dream override my unhappy thoughts.
I know that one day, money will hopefully never be an issue—I pray for this on a daily basis, so how can it not? I won't give up on an incessant job search in hopes of a better way of life; to ensure my happiness with everything full circle in my life. In our lives. I will be adamant, therefore something will have to give way to my relentless forage of happiness if only to secure our finances. It must, or I will drive myself crazy with the possibility of an unsuccessful exploration of triumph; an effort and drive of love for that one perfect job. I know there's one out there, therefore I won't give up.
I must be positive.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
I expect to be happy, and I expect to surround myself in a world of content, only to be disappointed instead. I'm lucky to have a loving, supporting husband, and a healthy daughter who have both accepted my bipolar disorder without judgment and resentment, because they love me regardless. I know my outbursts have only saddened them, instead of angered them as most people would deal with such torment. For most families, I imagine this would only be the case. Not for me, however, so why can't I be appreciative instead of questioning the result of my happiness?
I know for one to ask if happiness exists is the million dollar question we all ask ourselves, if not an expectation we all want to grasp. With the fear of losing it all, I only want to be thankful for the support I have received instead of questioning it on a daily basis.
I've always believed—albeit wrongly—that happiness cannot and does not exist for me. Perhaps I'm being pessimistic, but in my heart, it can't. Can it? I look at people and their lives, their families, and their careers, and they all seem happy and satisfied. With me, I'm not so sure. I've had many jobs over the years and I honestly cannot think of one that I've been completely in love with. On the contrary, I've only felt dissatisfaction instead. With all of them.
How can that be? Is it so difficult to feel happiness and fulfillment? For most people, they would look down upon their lives and be thankful for everything they have been blessed with, whereas for me, I'm the opposite. It seems that my job situation won't escape me. I've had to go backwards instead of forward with my career. My current job isn't in my field, but only a job I've held for years as I battled my way through college. What is the point of my degree? Why did I bother? I've always been an advocate of the regurgitating effects of an education—that it's never a waste. But this time, I'm not so sure.
I'm lucky to have such a supportive family, that much I'm grateful for. But our finances and my job situation have hindered this feeling of satisfaction which continuously override the lack of happiness in my life. As I continue to daydream and wonder what life would be like without the worry of funds, I often wonder if we'll ever be financially secure in our lives, or are we destined to live the life of struggle as we wrestle our way through a web of destruction? I know I should be grateful for our lives and what we have with each other would be the easier way to go, instead of dreading on what we don't have, but instead, what we do have.
Most people say that money should not define us, but only to make us indebted to what we've been blessed with to make our lives that much easier. However, I always seem to battle with the continuous negative thoughts of unhappiness. We know that's not right, and we all know that money does not make us happy, but the jealousy of such a dream override my unhappy thoughts.
I know that one day, money will hopefully never be an issue—I pray for this on a daily basis, so how can it not? I won't give up on an incessant job search in hopes of a better way of life; to ensure my happiness with everything full circle in my life. In our lives. I will be adamant, therefore something will have to give way to my relentless forage of happiness if only to secure our finances. It must, or I will drive myself crazy with the possibility of an unsuccessful exploration of triumph; an effort and drive of love for that one perfect job. I know there's one out there, therefore I won't give up.
I must be positive.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Long Days or Old Age?
After much contemplation on my job search, my husband suggested that instead of a relentless search into a career in graphic design, I should try to find a job in retail instead—something he claimed I had always been satisfied with. With the upcoming holiday season, I knew it would be easier than usual since most stores were hiring for the busy holiday season.
As I continually perused craigslist, I was apprehensive of applying for anything outside of my career, if not an office job. Something outside of my comfort zone. A job that has proven to be stifling and lonely. At least with my last job this has confirmed to be true. Do I dare? Or just sit there doubting my husband's recommendation?
I'll give it a try. Why not? I have nothing to lose.
With the holidays rapidly approaching, I knew undertaking this challenge could possibly benefit me, albeit temporarily. The advantages of working in retail during the holidays, is that it gives me the opportunity of eventually not going back. During a temporary position as 'holiday help,' I wanted to ensure that money wouldn't be an issue since working in retail can become problematic, not only with the unusual hours, but the hourly wage as well. I wasn't interested in a commission based salary, but knew that most retail jobs would require a certain amount of sales in order to remain motivated and fulfilled, as well as a requirement with the company.
Even though I've always preferred a more simplified retail position, I often wonder if selling was something I'd be good at. A successful attempt at working with the public in hopes of ringing up that next purchase to promote happiness with each individual customer. Shopping is always a happy endeavor, so as a salesperson, it's my job to establish their exuberant visit. Therefore, walking out of the boutique with a smile on their face.
Immediately after my search, I received a phone call for an instantaneous interview. A part of me was elated, but the other part of me was disappointed at the same time. I had hoped that upon my continuous search that finding a job in retail would not come to fruition, but only an excuse from telling my husband that it didn't work out; that nobody was interested. But I knew that it was an undertaking that I must take; a risk in my mind that needed to materialize. While in college and as a young teenager, I've worked many years in retail, with only the last 10+ years of graphic design permeating throughout my resumé, therefore possibly causing an apprehensive conflict from my being hired. As a result of my recent experience, I wasn't sure if I would receive this quick of a phone call. I didn't know what to expect.
The woman on the other end was giving me a chance regardless. She wanted to hear my experience and know that I was fully qualified to grace the marble floors of their upscale boutique as a potential salesperson.
Even I wasn't certain, because I wanted to know and also hear what she had to say. I also gave her the chance to sell the position that could be offered to me.
After a successful interview, I was offered the job the very next day. I was happy, but at the same time, I was disappointed. Upon hearing the hourly wage (plus commission), I was disillusioned—albeit expectedly—of the low wage. I had worked retail long enough to know that standing on my feet would be a challenge if not a painful one—even if I am a regular runner.
After starting my first day, my back was bothering me to the point where I'd have to regularly sit down, only to be told that I am allotted a 10 minute break for a 4 hour shift. I knew this would be problematic, but how could a 10 minute break benefit me? By the time I sit down, my break is basically over. A snack? Perhaps. Lunch or dinner? Not enough time.
Although at the moment, I am only working 4 hour shifts in hopes of being triumphant on my way home from a beneficial outcome of—what feels like—a long day. However, what I did feel was excruciating pain instead. My back bothered me, to the point that I could barely sit down. How can this be? How can a regular runner like myself be in such pain from standing on my feet for a mere 4 hours? I sometimes wonder if it's my age causing this, but I don't know for sure. Many years ago while I was pregnant, my back hurt so bad that I had to take an early leave of absence and as a result, receive short term disability. Prior to becoming pregnant, I ran 5–7 miles a day, 5 days/week. After having my daughter, my back never went back to normal pre-pregnancy.
Until 2 years ago prior to my running 3 days/week. It felt good to never feel that lower back pain again. Although I was concerned as I started running again, I felt elated and continued to remain painless. Even if I felt a constant nervousness.
Until now. Until I started this job. I don't love this job, but I don't hate it either. For now, it's just a job I am doing. It feels good to get out of the house and in a social, public environment. Something I have needed for a very long time. I now know that only working minimal hours per week that the possibility of getting burned out, could only overcome me, but feeling good instead. Aside from my back pain—which I hope is just a discomfort I must get used to—the probability of going to work a few days a week will heighten my entertainment surroundings with the struggle of incessant back pain.
Have I gotten too old for such an environment? Or am I just not used to it?
Long days, or old age?
Only time will tell.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
As I continually perused craigslist, I was apprehensive of applying for anything outside of my career, if not an office job. Something outside of my comfort zone. A job that has proven to be stifling and lonely. At least with my last job this has confirmed to be true. Do I dare? Or just sit there doubting my husband's recommendation?
I'll give it a try. Why not? I have nothing to lose.
With the holidays rapidly approaching, I knew undertaking this challenge could possibly benefit me, albeit temporarily. The advantages of working in retail during the holidays, is that it gives me the opportunity of eventually not going back. During a temporary position as 'holiday help,' I wanted to ensure that money wouldn't be an issue since working in retail can become problematic, not only with the unusual hours, but the hourly wage as well. I wasn't interested in a commission based salary, but knew that most retail jobs would require a certain amount of sales in order to remain motivated and fulfilled, as well as a requirement with the company.
Even though I've always preferred a more simplified retail position, I often wonder if selling was something I'd be good at. A successful attempt at working with the public in hopes of ringing up that next purchase to promote happiness with each individual customer. Shopping is always a happy endeavor, so as a salesperson, it's my job to establish their exuberant visit. Therefore, walking out of the boutique with a smile on their face.
Immediately after my search, I received a phone call for an instantaneous interview. A part of me was elated, but the other part of me was disappointed at the same time. I had hoped that upon my continuous search that finding a job in retail would not come to fruition, but only an excuse from telling my husband that it didn't work out; that nobody was interested. But I knew that it was an undertaking that I must take; a risk in my mind that needed to materialize. While in college and as a young teenager, I've worked many years in retail, with only the last 10+ years of graphic design permeating throughout my resumé, therefore possibly causing an apprehensive conflict from my being hired. As a result of my recent experience, I wasn't sure if I would receive this quick of a phone call. I didn't know what to expect.
The woman on the other end was giving me a chance regardless. She wanted to hear my experience and know that I was fully qualified to grace the marble floors of their upscale boutique as a potential salesperson.
Even I wasn't certain, because I wanted to know and also hear what she had to say. I also gave her the chance to sell the position that could be offered to me.
After a successful interview, I was offered the job the very next day. I was happy, but at the same time, I was disappointed. Upon hearing the hourly wage (plus commission), I was disillusioned—albeit expectedly—of the low wage. I had worked retail long enough to know that standing on my feet would be a challenge if not a painful one—even if I am a regular runner.
After starting my first day, my back was bothering me to the point where I'd have to regularly sit down, only to be told that I am allotted a 10 minute break for a 4 hour shift. I knew this would be problematic, but how could a 10 minute break benefit me? By the time I sit down, my break is basically over. A snack? Perhaps. Lunch or dinner? Not enough time.
Although at the moment, I am only working 4 hour shifts in hopes of being triumphant on my way home from a beneficial outcome of—what feels like—a long day. However, what I did feel was excruciating pain instead. My back bothered me, to the point that I could barely sit down. How can this be? How can a regular runner like myself be in such pain from standing on my feet for a mere 4 hours? I sometimes wonder if it's my age causing this, but I don't know for sure. Many years ago while I was pregnant, my back hurt so bad that I had to take an early leave of absence and as a result, receive short term disability. Prior to becoming pregnant, I ran 5–7 miles a day, 5 days/week. After having my daughter, my back never went back to normal pre-pregnancy.
Until 2 years ago prior to my running 3 days/week. It felt good to never feel that lower back pain again. Although I was concerned as I started running again, I felt elated and continued to remain painless. Even if I felt a constant nervousness.
Until now. Until I started this job. I don't love this job, but I don't hate it either. For now, it's just a job I am doing. It feels good to get out of the house and in a social, public environment. Something I have needed for a very long time. I now know that only working minimal hours per week that the possibility of getting burned out, could only overcome me, but feeling good instead. Aside from my back pain—which I hope is just a discomfort I must get used to—the probability of going to work a few days a week will heighten my entertainment surroundings with the struggle of incessant back pain.
Have I gotten too old for such an environment? Or am I just not used to it?
Long days, or old age?
Only time will tell.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Friday, November 16, 2012
A Good Read
I finally realized, that after struggling with bipolar disorder for several years, that it's time to read about this common illness that has made our world more aware of its commonality. After receiving a book recommendation from a friend of mine, who is also struggling with bipolar disorder, I immediately perused my local library's website in hopes to read about something so common and so aware, in hopes of a change of my way of thinking. A woman's perspective of what she has endured for most of her adult life. Only to be disappointed with the final ending. It was scattered—perhaps as a mere quintessential reflection of someone suffering with bipolar disorder—it seemed to jump from one subject to another, not leaving the reader with a final outcome. I found the book to be dismaying therefore I learned nothing new of my illness, only that, again, I wasn't the only person dealing with it everyday. Just another person's account of what they're going through.
But somehow this book was one of the lucky ones to hit the shelves and bookstores and libraries throughout the world—a paper thin documentation of reminiscent memories from the author herself.
So, I'll try again. This time I went to the library myself so I can view the shelves in person to make my own decision on which book to choose. Which book would suit me the best. Even though I was filled with confusion of the many choices, this particular book jumped out at me, discussing the many side effects and personal scenarios of bipolar disorder II, as well as from the doctor's point of view of over 25 years experience of studying this disease. Even before it was known what it was and what label was to be given.
As I started reading, I wasn't sure what to expect, but figured I'd continue on either way—I needed to know what made this book so special because again, having the advantage of gracing the shelves of thousands of books side-by-side, began a competition that will be forever thought of as nothing but a collective unsureness filling a void lingering the many doubts of potential readers. Myself included.
Although I've only made it halfway through, continuing on will be a challenge, that much I admit—especially given these days of enormous difficulties of paying attention to anything surrounding me—I know this will be a book that will heighten my knowledge of BDII, but with a much needed distraction, additionally I checked out a novel to coincide my fiction read of this educational recount of what I now know to be something I also suffer from.
On a regular daily basis, I have a hindrance to sitting down quietly and reading a book—something I have spent countless hours adhering to. I enjoyed reading regularly. On average I would read 2–3 books per month. From novels to non-fiction, it was something I took pride in. These days however, I know I hold a tremendous strain trying to do so. But why? Is it that much of a challenge to sit down quietly and read a book? Does my mind continuously wander in many directions preventing me from completing this once simple task?
This past week, I have prevented myself from playing my video game, something that for the past two years, has held a great addiction in my soul and my mind. It was a protest to my emotional psyche. If only a personal one, at best. But these past few days, I have had no desire to play, thus causing an even greater bout of boredom.
Now what do I do? Do I try to spend that quality time to read a book while enjoying my solitude? Or shall I wrestle with my thoughts of continuous confusion?
I'll figure it out. I always do.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
But somehow this book was one of the lucky ones to hit the shelves and bookstores and libraries throughout the world—a paper thin documentation of reminiscent memories from the author herself.
So, I'll try again. This time I went to the library myself so I can view the shelves in person to make my own decision on which book to choose. Which book would suit me the best. Even though I was filled with confusion of the many choices, this particular book jumped out at me, discussing the many side effects and personal scenarios of bipolar disorder II, as well as from the doctor's point of view of over 25 years experience of studying this disease. Even before it was known what it was and what label was to be given.
As I started reading, I wasn't sure what to expect, but figured I'd continue on either way—I needed to know what made this book so special because again, having the advantage of gracing the shelves of thousands of books side-by-side, began a competition that will be forever thought of as nothing but a collective unsureness filling a void lingering the many doubts of potential readers. Myself included.
Although I've only made it halfway through, continuing on will be a challenge, that much I admit—especially given these days of enormous difficulties of paying attention to anything surrounding me—I know this will be a book that will heighten my knowledge of BDII, but with a much needed distraction, additionally I checked out a novel to coincide my fiction read of this educational recount of what I now know to be something I also suffer from.
On a regular daily basis, I have a hindrance to sitting down quietly and reading a book—something I have spent countless hours adhering to. I enjoyed reading regularly. On average I would read 2–3 books per month. From novels to non-fiction, it was something I took pride in. These days however, I know I hold a tremendous strain trying to do so. But why? Is it that much of a challenge to sit down quietly and read a book? Does my mind continuously wander in many directions preventing me from completing this once simple task?
This past week, I have prevented myself from playing my video game, something that for the past two years, has held a great addiction in my soul and my mind. It was a protest to my emotional psyche. If only a personal one, at best. But these past few days, I have had no desire to play, thus causing an even greater bout of boredom.
Now what do I do? Do I try to spend that quality time to read a book while enjoying my solitude? Or shall I wrestle with my thoughts of continuous confusion?
I'll figure it out. I always do.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Thursday, August 23, 2012
The End of My Tunnel
It's official, today I feel as though I have reached my threshold—the end of my tunnel. I feel as though my life is wasted and I am no longer challenged. As if I am oppressed. How do I overcome this? How can I excel within my soul and my psyche to fight this constant emotion? Is it even possible at this point, from someone who is in their late 40's? To some of you, that may seem young, but to most, it's beyond a mid-life crisis. I have been experiencing this for over a year now and I can't seem to shake myself from it. I wish it was like a bad dream and I could just wake up, instead of living it every single day.
I sit here at my new job bored and unchallenged. I feel as though my life is being wasted and everything I worked so hard to achieve while in college and beyond graduation has escaped me and slipped through my fingers; it has become out of my grasp. Everything is out of my control, including my bipolar disorder. It's clear my medication isn't working as I had hoped, and only creating a constant depression that is beyond anything I had ever imagined. A deep decline within my soul.
I should be happy, I should be grateful and I should love my life. I have a loving, wonderful husband and a beautiful healthy daughter—so why can't I appreciate this and just accept it as being a part of my life? Why can't I just realize that the majority of the population is worse off than me and just move forward and try to make the best of it? To continue on as part of my personal life cycle.
'Why' seems to be the question of my life these days. It seems I am always asking 'why.'
I'm tired of asking this question, and instead, I want an answer. Nothing embellished, I just want to know that everything will be OK and my life will persevere regardless of what job I'm at or whether or not we're ever rich or even if we're poor, that life will still go on and I'll be happy. I'll be thankful for my life and appreciate and relish my family time everyday instead. But I can't. Alternately, I dwell on my life and it makes me even more depressed than I had ever imagined.
This slump that I'm in won't go away and it's making me exhausted; I am emotionally exhausted. I never thought in my wildest dreams that repeating that phrase would ever escape my lips or even an emotion that would ever be consummated in my life.
But it does. Every single day for the past year. Or, at least it feels that way.
Last night I had a long discussion with my husband about my job and how unhappy I was. He understands, but at the same time, he doesn't. He's trying to wrap his fingers around why I am like this, because I know for my husband, he too is emotionally exhausted just from living my personal hell along side me. It affects him too. He knows that in all the years we have been together, I have never reacted like this or have ever let a job affect me the way this job has, in this manner; I have never been this depressed.
He asks that I give the job some time, at least until he can accumulate a clientele from his new position as a personal trainer. I promised him I would, as I had no intentions of just easily giving up and walking away. I've always been responsible that way and I always seem to think logically, which I was told just the other day from my psychiatric nurse—who I like to refer to as my 'drug dealer'—that my logical thinking and planning is a "gift." Maybe an attribute I should grow to admire, instead of criticize.
I will try and honor my husband's wishes and trudge everyday at a job that I loathe and a job that I come home depressed from, I will do it and I will make my husband proud. For our finances, it's a necessity. It'll give us that one little freedom of paying our bills and our attempt to live like the rest of society in an honest manner.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
I sit here at my new job bored and unchallenged. I feel as though my life is being wasted and everything I worked so hard to achieve while in college and beyond graduation has escaped me and slipped through my fingers; it has become out of my grasp. Everything is out of my control, including my bipolar disorder. It's clear my medication isn't working as I had hoped, and only creating a constant depression that is beyond anything I had ever imagined. A deep decline within my soul.
I should be happy, I should be grateful and I should love my life. I have a loving, wonderful husband and a beautiful healthy daughter—so why can't I appreciate this and just accept it as being a part of my life? Why can't I just realize that the majority of the population is worse off than me and just move forward and try to make the best of it? To continue on as part of my personal life cycle.
'Why' seems to be the question of my life these days. It seems I am always asking 'why.'
I'm tired of asking this question, and instead, I want an answer. Nothing embellished, I just want to know that everything will be OK and my life will persevere regardless of what job I'm at or whether or not we're ever rich or even if we're poor, that life will still go on and I'll be happy. I'll be thankful for my life and appreciate and relish my family time everyday instead. But I can't. Alternately, I dwell on my life and it makes me even more depressed than I had ever imagined.
This slump that I'm in won't go away and it's making me exhausted; I am emotionally exhausted. I never thought in my wildest dreams that repeating that phrase would ever escape my lips or even an emotion that would ever be consummated in my life.
But it does. Every single day for the past year. Or, at least it feels that way.
Last night I had a long discussion with my husband about my job and how unhappy I was. He understands, but at the same time, he doesn't. He's trying to wrap his fingers around why I am like this, because I know for my husband, he too is emotionally exhausted just from living my personal hell along side me. It affects him too. He knows that in all the years we have been together, I have never reacted like this or have ever let a job affect me the way this job has, in this manner; I have never been this depressed.
He asks that I give the job some time, at least until he can accumulate a clientele from his new position as a personal trainer. I promised him I would, as I had no intentions of just easily giving up and walking away. I've always been responsible that way and I always seem to think logically, which I was told just the other day from my psychiatric nurse—who I like to refer to as my 'drug dealer'—that my logical thinking and planning is a "gift." Maybe an attribute I should grow to admire, instead of criticize.
I will try and honor my husband's wishes and trudge everyday at a job that I loathe and a job that I come home depressed from, I will do it and I will make my husband proud. For our finances, it's a necessity. It'll give us that one little freedom of paying our bills and our attempt to live like the rest of society in an honest manner.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
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
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
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
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
Monday, June 25, 2012
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.
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
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
Friday, June 22, 2012
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
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Painting Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
I love painting, I do. I think I've made that apparent in most—if not all—of my prior posts. Although I haven't been trained professionally as a painter (even though I studied art), it's something I've always done to calm my nerves and makes me happy—even to keep me occupied and "out of trouble." It's just what I've always done. I think I take after my mother in that regard, because she did the same thing.
After many years of painting bright colors on many canvases, I've come to the realization that painting has helped me through my bipolar disorder on many levels, not just as an artist, but for a therapeutic point of view as well—even if I wasn't made aware of it at the time. However, it's something I have always enjoyed and realize that many painting instructors teach their students to mix their colors and never paint straight ouf of the tube. For me, I'm the opposite. I prefer to paint with acrylic when most instructors teach their students to use oils instead.
Any way you look at it, it's still a personal preference.
I do know that as a fine artist, we will all eventually use what works for us the most. It allows us to inhabit our own methods and excel as artists. At this point after many years, I don't care what the art community thinks about my paintings, and I don't care if they're being critiqued to the point of negativity and displeasure, I enjoy painting and I take pleasure from it.
As a graphic designer, we are taught to design for our clients, not the designer. That rule of thumb has always been tough for me, but I've come to learn after many years of working as a graphic designer that it's how we have to work in order to make a living.
We are there to make the client happy.
It can be very frustrating because as professionals, we know that many times the design we choose instead of the client, are always better. But that's not always the case. The client sees and desires what they want, regardless of our professional opinion. I've just learned to not take it personally, because ultimately it's not a reflection of who I am, but of the client during that point in time.
Isn't that what they're paying us for?
When I'm painting, I can take comfort that I'm doing it for me and for myself only. Nobody else. I've never put my paintings up for sale and I don't intend to. Over the years, I've been lucky enough to have painted many commissions of pets, couples, children, etc. but I've never really sold my paintings that are hanging on my walls.
These were painted for me.
I truly believe that these individual paintings mean something special to me and they have a purpose in my home. I don't think I could ever say goodbye. They're important to me and I've grown to accept them as part of my 'family,' part of my decor.
But as my heart grows for each painting I create, I know that deep in my heart I do it for enjoyment and a release. A release of everything I've endured this past year and what I will move to this coming year.
Maybe one of these days I'll actually sell one of my paintings, but in the meantime, I'll just enjoy them as they continue to hang on my own four walls.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
After many years of painting bright colors on many canvases, I've come to the realization that painting has helped me through my bipolar disorder on many levels, not just as an artist, but for a therapeutic point of view as well—even if I wasn't made aware of it at the time. However, it's something I have always enjoyed and realize that many painting instructors teach their students to mix their colors and never paint straight ouf of the tube. For me, I'm the opposite. I prefer to paint with acrylic when most instructors teach their students to use oils instead.
Any way you look at it, it's still a personal preference.
I do know that as a fine artist, we will all eventually use what works for us the most. It allows us to inhabit our own methods and excel as artists. At this point after many years, I don't care what the art community thinks about my paintings, and I don't care if they're being critiqued to the point of negativity and displeasure, I enjoy painting and I take pleasure from it.
As a graphic designer, we are taught to design for our clients, not the designer. That rule of thumb has always been tough for me, but I've come to learn after many years of working as a graphic designer that it's how we have to work in order to make a living.
We are there to make the client happy.
It can be very frustrating because as professionals, we know that many times the design we choose instead of the client, are always better. But that's not always the case. The client sees and desires what they want, regardless of our professional opinion. I've just learned to not take it personally, because ultimately it's not a reflection of who I am, but of the client during that point in time.
Isn't that what they're paying us for?
When I'm painting, I can take comfort that I'm doing it for me and for myself only. Nobody else. I've never put my paintings up for sale and I don't intend to. Over the years, I've been lucky enough to have painted many commissions of pets, couples, children, etc. but I've never really sold my paintings that are hanging on my walls.
These were painted for me.
I truly believe that these individual paintings mean something special to me and they have a purpose in my home. I don't think I could ever say goodbye. They're important to me and I've grown to accept them as part of my 'family,' part of my decor.
But as my heart grows for each painting I create, I know that deep in my heart I do it for enjoyment and a release. A release of everything I've endured this past year and what I will move to this coming year.
Maybe one of these days I'll actually sell one of my paintings, but in the meantime, I'll just enjoy them as they continue to hang on my own four walls.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Saturday, June 16, 2012
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.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
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.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Friday, June 15, 2012
Eternal Sunshine of the Vintage Display
I love color, I do. If you saw my loft, you would know that I love color.
I've never been one to decorate my home with the usual taupe and beige that seem to be the norm in most homes. Oh no, I have to have colorful surroundings. It'll make me happy, you see.
Hmm maybe not always.
I'm mature enough to know that a colorful home will not solve all problems—especially those suffering from bipolar disorder. But it feels and looks good, nevertheless. You can tell, the minute you walk into my home that an artist lives here.
That pleases me.
I typically don't watch the quintessential home decorating shows all over the networks these days, or anything close. I just like to come up with my own ideas—with the occasional inspirations wherever I go. I'm always looking around and observing for a "lightbulb" effect. However, I was watching a show and absolutely loved it! The decorators/artists/designers (whose vocation was more along the lines of professional flippers), were a married couple who were like me—they loved mixing vintage elements with new. I loved it. OMG where did they come from?
New York City of course.
They demonstrated a modern taste—such as myself—with a lot of bright colors. They weren't afraid to go beyond the usual common boundaries.
I was addicted, so I continued to watch every episode with anticipation. Heck, I even downloaded the series from iTunes so I can watch over and over. It was invigorating and more than inspiring.
Many ideas were presented as an eclectic juxtaposition of vintage essentials displayed throughout their clients' homes. I loved it. Unfortunately, they have the advantage of living in New York City where there is a plethora of vintage/pre-owned shops. I didn't have that luxury here where I live.
Regardless, I'll make due. I've always loved and taken advantage of eBay and it's right there at your fingertips.
With empty vases and chachkes cluttering up my coffee table, I knew I had to make a change. Something more simple; maybe even adding more color. But what?
Once again taking advantage of the convenience of eBay, I scrolled page after page looking for ideas for the perfect find. Perusing Craigslist didn't seem like an appropriate option, so I continued to search for the perfect bargain. Or even idea. Regardless, I still tried Craigslist just in case. You never know.
I have been on the hunt for an old vintage pinball machine for months now—don't ask me where I'd put it however—and know that clearly eBay wouldn't be a practical option. I even found the perfect set of old gym lockers on Craigslist for a small space that was being misused in the foyer of our front door—for a mere $60.
Even though I still had no idea what I wanted to fill those empty vases with, I figured I'd come up with an idea eventually. An epiphany. Because that's just how I roll.
One day it literally came to me, and I realized it'd be the perfect solution. Nobody would have these items displayed in their homes. Only on their pool tables for practical use—playing pool.
I knew coming up with the idea of displaying old vintage billiard balls mixed with new ones would be a perfect solution, albeit an odd one. But I could always appreciate its colorful and retro-style and loved how the color bordering each ball's circumference added life, which is what gave them a unique perspective.
Let the hunt begin.
For me, using something as simple as old styled mixed with new styled billiard balls was an inexpensive infusion and I knew it would be something I could afford and proudly display without "breaking the bank."
At first my husband thought I was weird, but I didn't care. As with everything in our home, he eventually comes around and loves how I've decorated our loft and proudly displayed my art.
I didn't want to stop there, I wanted to continue to add more "life" to my loft.
As I was attempting to work on my Lego art project—from my prior post, Blocked?....No Pun Intended—looking at the tub of colorful legos inspired me even more. Too bad it wasn't for that particular project, however, but the colors and different sizes always made me want to do something else; maybe something extraordinary outside of my 'blocked' Lego art project.
Buying an old bowl for $1.99 and filling it with Legos was also an unconventional inspiration, but a colorful one, nonetheless.
Even something as simple as an old unused gumball machine which I purchased on eBay for $20, even adding the candy gave it a colorful eclectic—and delicious—alternative.
My gaming headset has always been quite bothersome on my desk, so finding something as simple as a styrofoam head bust was an even better solution. For only $10, I took it home and spray painted it yellow and gave it more life than the sold as-is white styrofoam. I received an unexpected veneer as a result of the spray paint mixed with the styrofoam. Overall, it looked really cool.
I like to frequently shop the local vintage stores, Goodwill, pawn shops, our local Eco-Thrift store and the like for old, pre-owned items. It's like the saying, "one man's junk is another man's treasure." I have always found this to be true. I've always been an advocate of reusing items not just to "save the earth" but just as a way of expressing a form of unrivaled taste and individuality. This way, you're not seeing the same thing in everybody's home, or their clothing (i.e. Gap, Old Navy, Pottery Barn, etc.).
It's also why I love old estate jewelry. There's a history there, and although I may not know it, I can appreciate that there was a story regardless. Something about its untold diary gives an impression of excitement and wonderment as we try to imagine what that story is/was, maybe it was out of sadness or grief, or even desperation for money—God knows we've been there a number of times. Either way, it's a story I can create in my head; something that gives me inner peace.
Finding exceptional one-of-a-kind objects is something I've always treasured and enjoyed. Even altering its appearance with something as simple as spray paint can give it exclusivity.
These are one of the many things that have always helped me through my disease, bipolar disorder. I realize it can't cure it, but at least try and keep my mind occupied from my racing thoughts or decrease them a great deal. That is something I am satisfied with—even if it's only temporary at that time.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
I've never been one to decorate my home with the usual taupe and beige that seem to be the norm in most homes. Oh no, I have to have colorful surroundings. It'll make me happy, you see.
Hmm maybe not always.
I'm mature enough to know that a colorful home will not solve all problems—especially those suffering from bipolar disorder. But it feels and looks good, nevertheless. You can tell, the minute you walk into my home that an artist lives here.
That pleases me.
I typically don't watch the quintessential home decorating shows all over the networks these days, or anything close. I just like to come up with my own ideas—with the occasional inspirations wherever I go. I'm always looking around and observing for a "lightbulb" effect. However, I was watching a show and absolutely loved it! The decorators/artists/designers (whose vocation was more along the lines of professional flippers), were a married couple who were like me—they loved mixing vintage elements with new. I loved it. OMG where did they come from?
New York City of course.
They demonstrated a modern taste—such as myself—with a lot of bright colors. They weren't afraid to go beyond the usual common boundaries.
I was addicted, so I continued to watch every episode with anticipation. Heck, I even downloaded the series from iTunes so I can watch over and over. It was invigorating and more than inspiring.
Many ideas were presented as an eclectic juxtaposition of vintage essentials displayed throughout their clients' homes. I loved it. Unfortunately, they have the advantage of living in New York City where there is a plethora of vintage/pre-owned shops. I didn't have that luxury here where I live.
Regardless, I'll make due. I've always loved and taken advantage of eBay and it's right there at your fingertips.
With empty vases and chachkes cluttering up my coffee table, I knew I had to make a change. Something more simple; maybe even adding more color. But what?
Once again taking advantage of the convenience of eBay, I scrolled page after page looking for ideas for the perfect find. Perusing Craigslist didn't seem like an appropriate option, so I continued to search for the perfect bargain. Or even idea. Regardless, I still tried Craigslist just in case. You never know.
I have been on the hunt for an old vintage pinball machine for months now—don't ask me where I'd put it however—and know that clearly eBay wouldn't be a practical option. I even found the perfect set of old gym lockers on Craigslist for a small space that was being misused in the foyer of our front door—for a mere $60.
Even though I still had no idea what I wanted to fill those empty vases with, I figured I'd come up with an idea eventually. An epiphany. Because that's just how I roll.
One day it literally came to me, and I realized it'd be the perfect solution. Nobody would have these items displayed in their homes. Only on their pool tables for practical use—playing pool.
A view from the side showcasing how the pool balls & bowl
of legos look underneath my coffee table
Closeup view of the bowl of legos & vase of pool balls
View from above as you can see the large bowl filled
with vintage & new pool balls
I knew coming up with the idea of displaying old vintage billiard balls mixed with new ones would be a perfect solution, albeit an odd one. But I could always appreciate its colorful and retro-style and loved how the color bordering each ball's circumference added life, which is what gave them a unique perspective.
Let the hunt begin.
For me, using something as simple as old styled mixed with new styled billiard balls was an inexpensive infusion and I knew it would be something I could afford and proudly display without "breaking the bank."
At first my husband thought I was weird, but I didn't care. As with everything in our home, he eventually comes around and loves how I've decorated our loft and proudly displayed my art.
I didn't want to stop there, I wanted to continue to add more "life" to my loft.
As I was attempting to work on my Lego art project—from my prior post, Blocked?....No Pun Intended—looking at the tub of colorful legos inspired me even more. Too bad it wasn't for that particular project, however, but the colors and different sizes always made me want to do something else; maybe something extraordinary outside of my 'blocked' Lego art project.
Buying an old bowl for $1.99 and filling it with Legos was also an unconventional inspiration, but a colorful one, nonetheless.
Even something as simple as an old unused gumball machine which I purchased on eBay for $20, even adding the candy gave it a colorful eclectic—and delicious—alternative.
Sometimes I'll add peanut or plain M&M's for even
more bright colors—and when we're bored of chewing gum
My gaming headset has always been quite bothersome on my desk, so finding something as simple as a styrofoam head bust was an even better solution. For only $10, I took it home and spray painted it yellow and gave it more life than the sold as-is white styrofoam. I received an unexpected veneer as a result of the spray paint mixed with the styrofoam. Overall, it looked really cool.
I needed somewhere to display my gaming headset & saw
this styrofoam head & thought it was the perfect solution!
I like to frequently shop the local vintage stores, Goodwill, pawn shops, our local Eco-Thrift store and the like for old, pre-owned items. It's like the saying, "one man's junk is another man's treasure." I have always found this to be true. I've always been an advocate of reusing items not just to "save the earth" but just as a way of expressing a form of unrivaled taste and individuality. This way, you're not seeing the same thing in everybody's home, or their clothing (i.e. Gap, Old Navy, Pottery Barn, etc.).
It's also why I love old estate jewelry. There's a history there, and although I may not know it, I can appreciate that there was a story regardless. Something about its untold diary gives an impression of excitement and wonderment as we try to imagine what that story is/was, maybe it was out of sadness or grief, or even desperation for money—God knows we've been there a number of times. Either way, it's a story I can create in my head; something that gives me inner peace.
Finding exceptional one-of-a-kind objects is something I've always treasured and enjoyed. Even altering its appearance with something as simple as spray paint can give it exclusivity.
These are one of the many things that have always helped me through my disease, bipolar disorder. I realize it can't cure it, but at least try and keep my mind occupied from my racing thoughts or decrease them a great deal. That is something I am satisfied with—even if it's only temporary at that time.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
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