Category Archives: mental illness

Self destruction …

seems to be at the top of my bucket list.

Who does that?

Who works to sabotage friendships just to keep from being hurt?

I do, apparently.

I don’t trust anyone.

Not even those I once trusted.

I have lost, or mahaps misplaced, a vital part of myself.

I hear everything yet believe nothing.

I find myself in the same place I’ve always been.

I’m manic, yes, but I’ve been manic before.

This is different.

This time, I’m predominantly, unequivocally alone.

I’ve burned the bridges that led me out of a place I’ve been to many times.

There are no more bridges to burn.

All destroyed.

From here, I am solitary.

Alone.

A reflection that has no image.

A premonition fulfilled.

A frightening, sobering thought.

Though I’ve often wished for it, I don’t truly want to be completely isolated.

I only realized that once it was too late.

Be careful what you wish for.

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Guilt …

is something I am well acquainted with.

I grew up on it.

It was my parents’ first line of defense.

Even when I was innocent, they had a way of making me feel at fault.

At fault for what?

Having sex when I wasn’t, my total incapacitation with math, the hostages in Iran?

It made no difference.

I was, for whatever the cause, to blame.

What matters is that I was too weak in my spirit and confused in my mind to argue.

So I went along.

They didn’t understand me.

Nobody understood me.

Nobody at that time really knew anything about bipolar disorder, or, as it was called then, manic-depressive disorder.

I knew I was different, but was made to believe, as everyone else did, that I was a rebellious teenager with a bad temperament.

I slammed doors.

I cried.

I drank.

I cut myself.

I was the epitome of a sufferer of Manic-Depressive disorder.

I had no control and yet was expected to exhibit control.

That is messed up in the purest sense.

I owe one doc my life. He recognized my plight and got me help.

He is one of my heroes.

Thanks, Jerry.

That was a long time ago.

In present day …

I believe Bi-Polar, one of the now-accepted terms, is a bastardization that allows people who have ups and downs now and then, to name themselves so they can be cool.

It let everyone into the nut club.

A place that was, when it wasn’t cool to be ‘bipolar”, only for those thought to be crazy, different, outcasts, criminals, nuts.

Now, however, you aren’t cool if you aren’t either bipolar or gay.

If I were gay, I would take exception to that, but I’m not gay.

I’m just crazy.

I hear rational people who exhibit no signs of affective psychosis , another PC name, proudly proclaim themselves as such.

Bipolar, that is.

Who are these people? These wanna-be’s who haven’t a clue.

They pretend to be psychotic and then turn it off as if it’s water.

I inwardly laugh just before I curse them with the single exercise of  spending a week in my head.

A day would be sufficient, but a week would make them catatonic or institutionalized.

A win, either way.

There is nothing glamorous or popular about suffering from manic-depression and if one thinks so, then they are pretending to so they can either …

fake being in high gear for the sake of getting attention …

have an excuse to be sexually promiscuous; if I may say, if it is real, the sex is unimaginable – (y’all know what I’m talking about) …

or find no fault with jumping out of the high windows on buildings because they know they can fly.

The alternative side of that msnic high is crouching in the bathroom with a razor blade, or cutting or purging or a million other coping mechanisms.

They forget that side while they are being manically cool.

Glamorous? NO.

To those who know what is real,
hang in there and fight.

To those who pretend to know what it’s like just to be manic-depressive, just shush.

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Over the weekend …

I had a total bipolar meltdown on my dad.

He was, at first, completely blindsided, and then perplexed.

I usually meltdown on my mom, who knows to just let it ride until the event is over.

But she wasn’t there and I was melting down in real time.

I think it was good for him, my Dad, that is, to see me as I have a propensity to be.

Totally crazy, on the edge of straight-jacket territory.

A mess.

I try to shield him from this side of me, because, well, at the risk of starting a riot, he is my dad and is, with abject certainty, a man.

Men rarely understand the astounding psyche of women.

Don’t roll your eyes and pretend to be insulted.

We know that maneuver.

Add bipolar to the mix and a total discombobulation takes over.

I love my Dad.

He is my, second only to Jesus and third to John Robert (who is dead, by the way), my hero.

A man who’s integrity I would bet my last dime on.

But he isn’t my mom.

He wants desperately to pat me on the head and tell me all is ok.

All is not okay.

I’M HAVING A MELTDOWN, WHERE IS MY MOTHER?

In my own defense, I didn’t say that.

I wanted to, but felt the ramifications would skew the effort to find out WHERE THE HELL my mom was.

So I cried, sobbed, made little sense while blindly clinging to my Dad.

I seriously doubt he will
ever be quite the same.

It’s a bit, I suppose, like trying raw oysters.

It sounds gross, but the rewards … well, they, by spades, outweigh the risks.

I hope, some day, to eat raw oysters with my dad.

A small, and yet ambiguous dream.

He hugged me while I was sobbing incoherently and told me he loved me, no matter what.

Major points for that.

Major.

Points.

Major.

A few difficult days …

are, once in a while, good for me.

They remind me that I am stronger than I think and that gives me confidence.

Confidence makes me manic, which is my baseline normal.

I like being manic as it makes me think clearer and feel empowered.

Right now, all is right with the world.

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              My favorite marker

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          My favorite Lighthouse

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               Sunrise in my world

Abandonment …

is one of those things that always comes as a surprise.

I’ve experienced it more times than I can count, and it never hurts any less than the first time.

I lost a friend.

Someone who saw the world in a similar way and had thoughts aligned with mine.

A soulmate, so to speak.

In my mind, a good and trusted friend.

I was, however, in the end, too much for them.

Too manic, too bipolar, too everything.

I want so badly to dislike them, to hold them to blame.

But the fault is mine.

I hoped for understanding and yet received ridicule and even more hurtful, harsh words that pierced my heart.

I didn’t expect this.

I was blindsided by pretense.

The purpose I am still not certain of.

The loss of that shattered me, but again, I take responsibility.

I will be, in the future, much less trusting.

It is a step back, yes, but a reminder that just because someone says something, doesn’t make it true.

I am trying to survive in an unfamiliar world.

There was a time when I would have done anything, up to and including, giving my life for them

Now, I wonder if would even spit on them if they were on fire.

I probably would.

My heart is broken, my spirit is wounded, but I have been here  before and survived.

I will survive this, as well.

I am, on my best days, somewhat unstable.

I don’t know why I keep expecting people who don’t know me to accept that.

Then again, yes, I do.

I’m am a Sagittarian optimist.

People will always take advantage of me because, whether they deserve it or not, I will trust them.

Some folks are Davids, and that is nothing anyone should ever aspire to be.

My bad.

Coming down …

from medication that poisoned my brain has been quite the adventure.

I specifically told my Doc that I have a hypersensitivity to medication.

“Oh, you’ll do fine” they said.

“You won’t have any problems” they said.

I knew going in that it was risky because, let’s be real here, I’ve been on meds in the past and I went off the deep end then, too.

But to stop the sleepwalking, sleeptexting, sleepcooking, sleepdriving … the list goes on but what would the point be … I went with it.

Big mistake.

I lost entire pieces of my memory, some of which have still not been fully recovered.

It stopped the sleep-stuff and controlled my mania by making me a hollowed out shell without emotions.

WTH?

I spent 48 hours simply trying to remember my niece’s name.

Friends have marked me off their list and I don’t blame them.

Well, actually, I do blame them. 

They’ve known me forever and should have realized something was up.

Mayhaps they weren’t the friends I thought they were.

That, at this point, is neither here nor there.

What’s done is done.

Needless to say, in the near future, I may be sleep-stuffing, totally manic and my own weird self again, but it beats losing pieces of myself that define me.

Meds work excellently for some, but to me, they are poison.

Always have been and I take responsibility for giving in.

Never again.

I learned this lesson years ago and it sucks that I had the “maybe this time” mentality and had to learn it all over again.

Good grief.

Good effing grief.

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Beauty in Silence … a poem

Thoughts about thoughts 
the night so long, so dark and dense
quiet in the purest sense
with nothing to dwell on but past tense
Energy used for naught

A day that turns into two then three
An end to that one cannot see
Happens only occasionally
But hurts me just the same

There are no words that can describe
The speed with which the thoughts collide
Before one ends another one slides
Into my faltering mind.

But on the morrow as a new day dawns
And the sunrise, still sleepy, yawns
I know that I am but a pawn
In the game that is known as life.

I don’t consider it a game
With each level more of the same
A wayward thought I cannot tame
This thing that is my life.

But all things, good or bad, must end
And trying diligently to rescind
Words once said in delirium
Cannot be unsaid.

Thoughts unbidden fill my head
When silence is preferred instead
But silence, to me, is all but dead
And yet the beauty lasts.
©Gina Minton Kearns