Why do I continually test the waters? Why is it I take it out on the people I care about the most? It seems this is a common monthly occurrence for me, and I always realize the next day—if not only a few hours later—how wrong I was, and how I risked so much as a result of this endless act. I am always wrought with guilt if only to consume me and ultimately, fill me with a constant pit in my stomach as though it'll all go away within an instant.
Our friendship will be no more.
But it never does. I am always forgiven. Is it because—as my friend frequently labels it, "I'm having a bipolar day?" I don't mind when he says that, because I know he's always right. Even though at that time, I don't admit it and only deny its very existence, I know he's right. It has become a common joke in our friendship, but I worry that one day, he will finally throw his arms up in the air and walk away. Walk away from what he no longer should have to put up with, but walk away from our dear friendship that has meant so much to both of us.
Walk away forever.
Even yesterday, I told him I must let him go from my life, but as I get ready for my day's work ahead of me, I am filled with regret. Butterflies flutter inside me with worry that he will finally say, "OK, nice knowing you." Would I blame him, no of course not. I didn't mean it, and I know he understands it's what I do—not that it makes it right of course, but it's what I do. Every month I try my hardest to accept our friendship for what it is, without the continuous threat of walking away. He has never made an attempt of ending it in the 2 years we have known each other.
We have been there for each other throughout everything—sad days to good days, depression to happiness. We have been friends through thick and through thin. Isn't that what friends are supposed to do for each other? Of course. Then why do I risk it regularly and risk losing a friend who means so much to me?
While I'm experiencing these regular "bipolar days," I always attempt to tell my friend that we should no longer be friends, and therefore remove him from my life forever. Only to regret it immediately thereafter. What is wrong with me? Why would I say such a harsh thing to a person who has always accepted me for who I am, and who has always been there for me through it all? He was there for me during the worst time of my life—during the death of my father. I will never forget that and I will be eternally grateful.
He's a very special person to me and I know deep down in my heart, it's not what I want. I will always want him there for someone to confide in and go to for advice, if only for a shoulder for someone to listen to me. And he always knows, he can do the same with me. I will always listen to him and be there for him. Recently, I have been experiencing pain in my life and I have used him for my pillow to cry into, and as I always suspect, he's there for me. Sometimes it takes a little longer than I would for him, but I understand that he's busy in his life and busy with his family. They must come first. He has recently reconciled with his 'wife' and as a result of that, it only makes him busier. I have been so happy for him and only wish nothing but the best for their relationship. It's what he's been wanting for over 8 months. I couldn't be happier for him.
When he calls me, it brightens my day. Hearing his voice brings nothing but a smile to my face. Whether I'm having a down day, it brings me new life. We speak on the phone everyday, and even though I know he's busy, he still takes the time to call me. Is it because I expect it and feels it's easier to avoid confrontation? I don't know. I only hope it's because he too likes to talk to me so we can discuss our daily lives. As a friend, he isn't 'required' to call me, as it wouldn't be fair to him to accept such a task, but when I hear my phone ring and look at the caller ID and see it's him, it only makes me smile.
Does that make me obsessed? I don't think so, but maybe it does. Maybe in some cosmic way it's not healthy. There are days—during my "bipolar" moments—that I sometimes feel it's only for the best that I walk away and make it easier for him, so he doesn't have to feel the obligation that I possibly project onto him everyday.
There are days where we talk for an hour if not longer, and days where we talk for 20 minutes or less. If I ask him to call, he always does, but most of the time, he'll call on his own without my asking. If that's not a true friend, I don't know what is.
So what is the problem? Why do I question our friendship and consistently ask for reassurance? I have always been insecure with my life—from my physical appearance, to relationships—and even today, I still question its very existence and the depth that is felt on the other end.
I try so hard, and I need to continue to try to maintain what we have now and the strength that our friendship continues to endure. I trust him, and I know he sees something in me that nobody else would. I love him for that, and I know he's a dear friend as a result of it.
I'm sorry, M/M. I'm sorry for continually putting you through this up and down "bipolar" spiral that you do not deserve. You have proven to me that our friendship means a lot to you, and therefore you no longer have to convince me of how much it means to you.
Because I trust you.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Showing posts with label virtual. Show all posts
Showing posts with label virtual. Show all posts
Monday, January 21, 2013
Monday, December 3, 2012
Insecurity.
I feel this often. Too often. More often than I'd like to admit. I'm a grown woman and I should be confident during this time in my life, only to feel the opposite instead. I should feel nothing but faith and assertiveness, but instead, I slither away from confrontation. I experience sadness while approaching these feelings that permeate throughout my body and my mind; throughout my soul. I can't seem to shake them, so as a result, I let them overcome my thoughts and my heart.
As the butterflies continue to flutter inside of me, I want to step outside of my body and take control; complete control of all of it. My entire life, my friends, my family, everyone surrounding me with whom I show a great deal of love for. Not to alienate them from my life completely, but to stand proud for those who have graced my affection and will only continue to do so.
So why would I feel insecure about these relationships? Why can't I just accept them as they are without the constant reassurance that everything will be OK? One word—insecurity.
The people who I have chosen to remain in my life are very special to me, therefore removing them now would be a mistake, if not a sad one. Although there are times where removing a friend or loved one from my life will seem like the right thing to do at that moment in time, I know in the future I will be filled with regret, only convincing myself that life is short. If it is in fact, short, I sometimes ask myself why continue on when I may believe something or someone may not be the proper fit for me which will have the advantage of gracing the presence of my life.
Most of the time I feel frustration, but don't we all? This is a common question we sometimes ask ourselves, but what is the answer? Is it as simple as removing that someone or something without further despair? I've always been the type of person who cares very deeply for the people in my life, especially friends. My friends mean a great deal to me, so when I feel as though I've been wronged in any way, I simply remove them from my life and move forward, without the uneasiness of looking back. However, certain friends have remained in my life regardless of their involvement and how they treat me. I know removing them from my life is the best thing to do, if only for my sanity and my future, but I can't, I just can't. I know it will only hurt and know I will constantly be filled with regret.
But for my future and my sanity? I know in my heart, it will be for the best. As they say, time heals all wounds. Doing it now will empower me.
My insecurity has only become the best of me, thus causing me to walk around in a cold daze. I know deep down that this is not healthy, and I need to rise above it and enable the invulnerability in my life and my mind. In this case, I know that confidence is of great magnitude.
As I am broached with a tough decision, I know whatever decision I make will be the right solution for me, and everyone around me. It can no longer affect my family like it has done for the past year or so. A thought that has rummaged through my mind for a long time coming, but I never had the courage to do so. I am weak, and I am not strong enough to make that one important step, so until then, I will continue to suffer and wonder, what if?
Like my entire life, insecurity has delegated my decision-making, and not for the good, but for the bad only. A negative that will continue to destroy my life until I take a stand in order to enrich it. Although I have tried many times, I always backed down, only to regret my weakness instead. Regret my cowardliness.
I need help, and I need guidance, and I need it now. If I only knew how.
Bipolar by Design
As the butterflies continue to flutter inside of me, I want to step outside of my body and take control; complete control of all of it. My entire life, my friends, my family, everyone surrounding me with whom I show a great deal of love for. Not to alienate them from my life completely, but to stand proud for those who have graced my affection and will only continue to do so.
So why would I feel insecure about these relationships? Why can't I just accept them as they are without the constant reassurance that everything will be OK? One word—insecurity.
The people who I have chosen to remain in my life are very special to me, therefore removing them now would be a mistake, if not a sad one. Although there are times where removing a friend or loved one from my life will seem like the right thing to do at that moment in time, I know in the future I will be filled with regret, only convincing myself that life is short. If it is in fact, short, I sometimes ask myself why continue on when I may believe something or someone may not be the proper fit for me which will have the advantage of gracing the presence of my life.
Most of the time I feel frustration, but don't we all? This is a common question we sometimes ask ourselves, but what is the answer? Is it as simple as removing that someone or something without further despair? I've always been the type of person who cares very deeply for the people in my life, especially friends. My friends mean a great deal to me, so when I feel as though I've been wronged in any way, I simply remove them from my life and move forward, without the uneasiness of looking back. However, certain friends have remained in my life regardless of their involvement and how they treat me. I know removing them from my life is the best thing to do, if only for my sanity and my future, but I can't, I just can't. I know it will only hurt and know I will constantly be filled with regret.
But for my future and my sanity? I know in my heart, it will be for the best. As they say, time heals all wounds. Doing it now will empower me.
My insecurity has only become the best of me, thus causing me to walk around in a cold daze. I know deep down that this is not healthy, and I need to rise above it and enable the invulnerability in my life and my mind. In this case, I know that confidence is of great magnitude.
As I am broached with a tough decision, I know whatever decision I make will be the right solution for me, and everyone around me. It can no longer affect my family like it has done for the past year or so. A thought that has rummaged through my mind for a long time coming, but I never had the courage to do so. I am weak, and I am not strong enough to make that one important step, so until then, I will continue to suffer and wonder, what if?
Like my entire life, insecurity has delegated my decision-making, and not for the good, but for the bad only. A negative that will continue to destroy my life until I take a stand in order to enrich it. Although I have tried many times, I always backed down, only to regret my weakness instead. Regret my cowardliness.
I need help, and I need guidance, and I need it now. If I only knew how.
Bipolar by Design
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
Friday, November 16, 2012
A Unique Friendship
I am writing this post that is meant for a dear friend of mine, someone whom I have never met, but someone that means a great deal to me, regardless. He just happened to come upon this blog, so for that, I am dedicating this post solely to him. When he found it, it upset me because I was concerned that he would read the intimate details that for many months, I have projected here, and in turn, he would judge me. But I know he won't, and I know even if he did read it—even though he has promised not to—he will accept that it's who I am and continue to be my friend regardless.
So this is for you, M/M. I hope you like it.
Because we have never met, and because we "met" simply by playing a popular video game, we just happen to hit it off from the very beginning. It started out slow, like any friendship would, but then it grew into something very special. A friendship that we both call(ed) 'weird'—for reasons that I will not divulge here, because the two of us will always keep that secret between us, and between us only—a special friendship nevertheless.
As the year grew, and as we embark on our two year 'anniversary' of our friendship, it has grown to become strong for both of us. As we communicate every single day, whether it's via text, phone or mumble (a popular gaming audio program), we still find a way to say hello and move it forward with the details of our lives at that current time. Because I love speaking with him and hearing about his life and how he's doing, I don't ever want it to end. I always want to make sure he's OK with the elements of his life.
I have to know he's there. It's just how I am. And with never having the luxury of seeing him face-to-face, I enjoy that comfort of our deep friendship in my life. Sometimes I question if he feels the same way, but I know our communication also means a great deal to him as he initiates the contact as much as I do with him. It's just what we do.
I've told him my life, and shared deep secrets with what I have endured this past year, details that I have never trusted with anyone else before—aside from my husband, my 'real life' friends will never learn of these recent horrors in my life; the sentence I have endured for the past year and a half. After everything I have confided in him, he has never judged me—even though I always thought he would. Maybe our lack of meeting in-person makes that easier for both of us, a computer or cell phone blocking our contact, I'm not sure, but he has proven to me by listening to my plight and the dark abyss where I have fallen many times, that he will continue to place his friendship onto me that nobody ever would in a real life scenario. Sometimes I forget that we have never met, and someone whom I've never had the luxury to cry on his shoulder or hug him while I mourned the recent death of my father.
I made the mistake of judging him once, a mistake that was devastating to his wife, and surprisingly, to me. Although this mistake never affected me personally, in my heart, it did. I will always regret the selfish behavior that I have created because for 3 weeks, I thought I lost his friendship forever. After reaching out to him, he forgave me, for reasons I'll never understand till this day, because he exonerated me of the vile words I spoke upon him as a selfish friend, because instead of supporting him—regardless of how I disapproved—I judged him instead. I should have been there for him as a friend, like he is always for me, but I wasn't. That is a distant memory now, and after more than a year later, we have grown even closer than that day over a year ago, and we both know that will always remain so. If only on my end.
There have been numerous times where I have taken my bipolar disorder out on him, and like the friend that he is, has never walked away from our friendship, or even judged me for it like most people would. He knows when I'm having—as he calls it—a "bipolar day," and still, after how I've treated him, over and over again, he never once judged me or walked away. He's special to me, and for that, I'll never let his friendship go and I'll never walk away from him again, like I did before.
Although I sometimes state otherwise, I won't. I hope he knows that I never will in spite of everything we've endured with our friendship.
In turn, as he is going through a rough time in his life, I try to be there for him, like he has for me, as a friend. I know that if someday, if he reunites with his family, or even if he falls in love with someone else, I will have to accept that our friendship could possibly diminish, if not completely end of our daily communication. I know that this could be a possibility that will only sadden me a great deal, but I'll understand, even if I may not agree with the likelihood of the inevitable lack of contact. I'll know and I'll understand why. It's real life, and I am not a part of that real life, but only a virtual one instead.
As our friendship continues to flourish, I daydream about the inevitable possibility that we will one day meet in person. Something that I know will come to fruition, but the question is not if we will meet, but when and how. Money is tight for both of us at this current time, therefore it's just not possible for either of us, which is fine. As I continue to accept that we cannot sit down and have a beer together, or cry on each other's shoulder, or even laugh like we do on the phone, I'll have to accept that as a friendship, it's still there. Whether or not I am unable to look into his eyes and see deep down into his soul, but to hear his voice and the laughter that frequently comes with it instead. For now, that'll make me happy, as long as we will remain friends and he will continue to be my confidante, I'll be elated.
You're very special to me, and I want you to know that you are forever in my heart as an unusual, but remarkable friend, and I hope we will continue our unique friendship for the future to come.
I love you, M/M
xoxo...
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
So this is for you, M/M. I hope you like it.
Because we have never met, and because we "met" simply by playing a popular video game, we just happen to hit it off from the very beginning. It started out slow, like any friendship would, but then it grew into something very special. A friendship that we both call(ed) 'weird'—for reasons that I will not divulge here, because the two of us will always keep that secret between us, and between us only—a special friendship nevertheless.
As the year grew, and as we embark on our two year 'anniversary' of our friendship, it has grown to become strong for both of us. As we communicate every single day, whether it's via text, phone or mumble (a popular gaming audio program), we still find a way to say hello and move it forward with the details of our lives at that current time. Because I love speaking with him and hearing about his life and how he's doing, I don't ever want it to end. I always want to make sure he's OK with the elements of his life.
I have to know he's there. It's just how I am. And with never having the luxury of seeing him face-to-face, I enjoy that comfort of our deep friendship in my life. Sometimes I question if he feels the same way, but I know our communication also means a great deal to him as he initiates the contact as much as I do with him. It's just what we do.
I've told him my life, and shared deep secrets with what I have endured this past year, details that I have never trusted with anyone else before—aside from my husband, my 'real life' friends will never learn of these recent horrors in my life; the sentence I have endured for the past year and a half. After everything I have confided in him, he has never judged me—even though I always thought he would. Maybe our lack of meeting in-person makes that easier for both of us, a computer or cell phone blocking our contact, I'm not sure, but he has proven to me by listening to my plight and the dark abyss where I have fallen many times, that he will continue to place his friendship onto me that nobody ever would in a real life scenario. Sometimes I forget that we have never met, and someone whom I've never had the luxury to cry on his shoulder or hug him while I mourned the recent death of my father.
I made the mistake of judging him once, a mistake that was devastating to his wife, and surprisingly, to me. Although this mistake never affected me personally, in my heart, it did. I will always regret the selfish behavior that I have created because for 3 weeks, I thought I lost his friendship forever. After reaching out to him, he forgave me, for reasons I'll never understand till this day, because he exonerated me of the vile words I spoke upon him as a selfish friend, because instead of supporting him—regardless of how I disapproved—I judged him instead. I should have been there for him as a friend, like he is always for me, but I wasn't. That is a distant memory now, and after more than a year later, we have grown even closer than that day over a year ago, and we both know that will always remain so. If only on my end.
There have been numerous times where I have taken my bipolar disorder out on him, and like the friend that he is, has never walked away from our friendship, or even judged me for it like most people would. He knows when I'm having—as he calls it—a "bipolar day," and still, after how I've treated him, over and over again, he never once judged me or walked away. He's special to me, and for that, I'll never let his friendship go and I'll never walk away from him again, like I did before.
Although I sometimes state otherwise, I won't. I hope he knows that I never will in spite of everything we've endured with our friendship.
In turn, as he is going through a rough time in his life, I try to be there for him, like he has for me, as a friend. I know that if someday, if he reunites with his family, or even if he falls in love with someone else, I will have to accept that our friendship could possibly diminish, if not completely end of our daily communication. I know that this could be a possibility that will only sadden me a great deal, but I'll understand, even if I may not agree with the likelihood of the inevitable lack of contact. I'll know and I'll understand why. It's real life, and I am not a part of that real life, but only a virtual one instead.
As our friendship continues to flourish, I daydream about the inevitable possibility that we will one day meet in person. Something that I know will come to fruition, but the question is not if we will meet, but when and how. Money is tight for both of us at this current time, therefore it's just not possible for either of us, which is fine. As I continue to accept that we cannot sit down and have a beer together, or cry on each other's shoulder, or even laugh like we do on the phone, I'll have to accept that as a friendship, it's still there. Whether or not I am unable to look into his eyes and see deep down into his soul, but to hear his voice and the laughter that frequently comes with it instead. For now, that'll make me happy, as long as we will remain friends and he will continue to be my confidante, I'll be elated.
You're very special to me, and I want you to know that you are forever in my heart as an unusual, but remarkable friend, and I hope we will continue our unique friendship for the future to come.
I love you, M/M
xoxo...
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Hospital.
As I sit here listening to the calmness of classical music, I feel I'm ready to discuss my recent 'visit' to the hospital—the psychiatric hospital. I only hope that opening up about this will help others, maybe help them when they're desperate and cry for outside help from family. Family can only do so much when you're that low, when you've hit rock bottom. But sometimes we need more than that, on a professional level.
It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away."
It didn't. It came back full force.
I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.
Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.
As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.
(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)
As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'
By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."
It was time.
Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later.
Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.
And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end.
Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.
One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.
We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.
Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?
Boy, was I wrong.
As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.
They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.
It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.
Bullshit.
The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time.
Ugh.
As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."
I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.
Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.
Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.
The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.
After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.
As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.
I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me.
In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.
In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended.
If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!
Good luck!
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away."
It didn't. It came back full force.
I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.
Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.
As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.
(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)
As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'
By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."
It was time.
Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later.
Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.
And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end.
Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.
One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.
We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.
Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?
Boy, was I wrong.
As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.
They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.
It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.
Bullshit.
The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time.
Ugh.
As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."
I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.
Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.
Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.
The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.
After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.
As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.
I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me.
In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.
In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended.
If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!
Good luck!
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
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