Waiting Not So Patiently

File Apr 08, 11 33 03 PM

Funny how quickly a year can pass, even if it’s one of the most difficult years you can recall, you always arrive at some point where you say to yourself how fast the year flew by. At least, that’s what I’m doing right now…as I worry and reflect and try to keep perspective.

One of my very first posts on this blog (and that wasn’t all that long ago) was a post titled “Where it All (Sort of) Started” detailing an event that I now realize was a big red flag alerting me that depression had stuck its claws into me again (bad monster). That event involved the discovery of a spot on my lung and the process of going through finding out what it was and that it wasn’t something to be concerned about. There’s a lot more meat to it than that, but that’s the short condensed story so that I can get you up to speed.

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That’s the read flag that totally should have been more obvious than it was at the time.

Now, here we are and I’ve been sick recently. Quite sick really. Pneumonia. A shot in the rear, breathing treatments, steroids, antibiotics… I’m doing the drill, ya know? Trying to rest as much as I can during the days while the kids are at school and my husband has been awesome and super supportive in the evenings. And then today, I get a phone call from my doctor.

It’s a new doctor and I like her a lot. She wants to know if I know about this spot on my lung that their radiologist saw on the X-ray they took a couple days ago. Naturally, I said “Yes! That was scanned last summer (turns out it was actually last May) and they thought it was benign.” She proceeded to ask if I had the report…and while I have the CD from the scan, I couldn’t locate the actual written report. Dang it. She wanted to know if I remembered the size of the spot (lung nodule) and I couldn’t accurately recall. We formulated a plan that I would obtain the report and since I was going to see her in a few days for a follow-up I could bring the report with me then. And… she mentioned that the radiologist measured it at 9mm currently.

I was instantly alarmed because I knew that wasn’t the size it was almost a year ago, but I still couldn’t recall the exact size. I got off the phone and my adrenaline started PUMPING. I could feel it coursing through me as I got a wind of energy like I haven’t had in many, many days. I looked and looked through the CT scan report I have on CD but it didn’t tell me anything in actual words, it was all pictures, the black and white kind. Not helpful at all.

I am bad at waiting. Like really bad at waiting. This is ironic because I posted about waiting on the Lord on Instagram this morning. I spoke of how if we wait, His way will always be better than ours. You know, we need to try not to act on impulse and not seek out instant gratification constantly. That went out the window as soon as this event arrived. In fact, I didn’t even recall that post until right now as I’m writing. (hangs head)

I called the imaging center and all I needed to do was drive over, show my id and I could get a copy of the report. Guess who couldn’t wait until Monday but had to drive over during rush hour on a late Friday afternoon? Yep, me. I got that report in my hands as soon as I possibly could and now, I know the answer. The answer is that my spot was measured at 7mm 11 months ago. And, depending on the actual size of the spot now (which may or may not be 9mm because X-rays aren’t nearly as accurate as a CT scan) it’s either grown, or it hasn’t. Either way, I’m sure I’m going to need another scan…this will require waiting. Waiting for the insurance company to pre-authorize the scan, waiting for the scan appointment itself and then waiting for the results. See a theme, here? Then there may or may not be more waiting…I could go on.

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This is so NOT me right now, but who doesn’t love a picture of a bride? And she is obviously annoyed about something, much like me.

I’m trying really hard not to jump to conclusions but meanwhile I read a whole lot of articles and reports tonight that I somewhat understand. They discuss growth rates of nodules in the lung and what they may or may not mean and all kinds of other tidbits about lung nodules that you really don’t need to know…most of which I already read last summer!  I’m trying not to worry. I’m trying to give it all to God. I’m trying to understand that waiting patiently for Him and the answers is the only way to go if I want peace of mind. 

All this to say, it really could be nothing. And God wants me to be brave and courageous and just wait for Him…so I’m going to do my very best.

Wait patiently for the Lord. Be Bold and Courageous. Yes, wait patiently for the Lord.
Psalm 27:14 NLT

 

 

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To Be Seen Again

One of the hardest things I have been dealing with these last few months is a sense of not wanting to be seen. I don’t want to be seen by the world, by the people in it, by even friends of mine and sometimes by my own family. It’s as if everyone is going to see all my pain and shame just by looking at me and even worse, they will see how much I’ve failed.

In my mind it’s like nobody has anything better to do than to look at me and judge me. Which we all know is a complete fallacy, a trick of the mind, but a really good trick because it feel so true.

The real truth is that I don’t go out in the world judging people. I’m not sizing anyone up. If I ever do it’s because of some sort of envy or admiration, which can be both good and bad. But in my heart, I don’t want to judge anyone and I believe a lot of people feel the same way. Additionally, most people are really only interested in their own stuff, their own life, their own weight gain or loss, their own hair, their own makeup, their own outfit and just so focused on themselves that they really aren’t looking at me.

On several occasions recently I’ve shared with my husband that I feel unable to do something because I just don’t want to be seen. It’s an undeniable feeling, it’s intrusive, it’s anxiety producing and just plain sad. He tries to understand. He’s good like that. But I don’t think I fully understand it. It’s part of this depression, anxiety, bipolar goop. It’s part of a shame I’ve lived with for too long. It’s actually quite self-centered. I’m truly not the center of the universe, or am I? 😉

I know a large measure of this is due to body image issues as well. Can anyone relate? I’ve gained A LOT of weight over the last year due to poor diet, inactivity due to depression and medications. For all the wrong reasons, when I am overweight I feel under-lovable. The more the weight, the less worth I have. And during this time, I need to feel loved more than ever. It’s as though if I’m not pretty on the outside, then you will know I’m not pretty on the inside, either.

Whether it be society, childhood trauma or self-sabotage, it doesn’t matter the cause because I’m stuck in the feeling of wanting to disappear, regardless. But somehow, deep inside me, I have to find the love. I have to find the love for myself, I have to find my identity in Christ and the courage to bravely face the world despite how much I feel like shrinking back inside myself or under the covers.

So, I’m working on that. I’m facing the world when I have to and sometimes when I don’t. Like when I went to the Go Blog Social conference several weeks ago, or when I went to a bible journaling meet-up this past weekend anticipating a small crowd (turns out there were only two of us there). And when I go to church on Sundays, I’m facing it. And I’m spending time in the Word again. I’m listening to worship music and spending time in devotionals and Bible study. I’m bible journaling. I’m listening to faith based audio books (never have done this before) and surrounding myself with His message. (If you are struggling with feeling beautiful and lovable I highly recommend the “You’re Beautiful” devotional that comes in the “Beautiful” devotional kit by Illustrated Faith. I’m working through this now and it’s touching me right in the most tender places of my heart.)

I’m doing these things and more (like starting to incorporate healthy eating habits into my life again). I am taking action. And I’m working to really embrace the fact that my worth is not completely tied to my appearance. I am seeking the knowledge that it can be okay for my pain to be visible and it can be okay that I am visible again. Maybe the world wants me in it? Maybe the world will be a slightly better place if I participate in it? Maybe, it will be good to be seen.

The LORD does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”.png

Life Lessons: What I’ve Learned from a Broken Car Door Handle

The door handle broke on my car, on the inside…on the driver’s side. This funny little thing happened a few weeks ago and I just realized that its happening has taught me a few things – about getting out of my car without a door handle and about life.

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If you know anything about bipolar disorder or depression or anxiety then you probably already know that I’m prone to discombobulation over little things. You may also know that having to open my door from the outside while I am still inside the car causes me anxiety because, you know, people might SEE me doing this. And you may also know that this isn’t a big deal but it can be a big deal in my messy but pretty little head. And today, it struck me, I’ve gotta share this. Some seriously good reminders have come from this. So, here it goes.

  1. Stay calm. When your door handle breaks off and you’re out and about and you don’t know what to do, stay calm for Pete’s sake. Take a couple deep breaths and then laugh. When anything remotely like this happens…your kid poops in his/her diaper right before you leave the house, you brake your key off in the door, you put the milk in the pantry and forget about it…just breathe and laugh. It will make everything better, I promise, at least for a while.
  2. Be prepared. After a few days or weeks of having a broken door handle I have learned that I need to stop and think before I try and get out of car. It’s like somehow, just opening the door now takes several more steps. So I have to be prepared to roll my window down, unlock the door from the inside (because mine automatically locks), put my arm through the open window, open the door from the outside and then…I have to roll the window back up. There may or may not have been several times I have done this improperly, which then leads to bad words and some more bad words, as I curse the door, the door handle and the car in general. So when you’re faced with a situation such as this…something that makes life a bit more difficult than usual, be prepared. Think through the steps and don’t get caught off guard. Otherwise your children may hear words that you are not intending them to hear for several more years.
  3. Take it slow. Similar to the “be prepared scenario”…this situation reminds me that I must slow down before I jump right out of the car. I’m literally put back in my place as soon as I reach for the door handle…that isn’t there. So there I am, thinking through the steps, again. I have to take my time to get it all right because this method is like retraining my muscles or something, those muscles that are for car door opening. But can’t we all be rewarded by slowing things down a bit? Maybe it’s not SO bad that I have to think through this process. Maybe it’s good for my brain. Maybe, if we take our time, less things like broken car door handles will happen? Either way, we’re always hearing that we move to fast and hurry too much through life. Let’s slow down.
  4. Get over yourself. I have an intensified concern over what other people think sometimes, and by sometimes, I mean most of the time. (It’s really not pleasant.) It may be vanity or it may be social anxiety. It may be both. But I know when I roll down that window and reach my arm out, I know that I’m doing something unconventional when it comes to door opening. I mean, have you ever actually seen someone opening their car door in this fashion? I didn’t think so. Part of that may be because this rarely happens or perhaps that you just don’t notice. That last part is the important part. Nobody really notices. I can say that I have conducted some research on this…because no one has yet to stare right at me or say anything to me about it, yet. Even so…I might think that they are watching, so I look around, kind of scope out the situation. I admit, I try to avoid opening the door when anyone is nearby or looking my direction. But, why bother? What does it really mean in the scheme of things? And am I so important that complete strangers are watching me to see how I exit my vehicle? Nope. I know you can probably think of a lot of ways this applies to life. Get over yourself already. (Talking to self.)
  5. Get it done. Finally, I must say, it’s time to get the freaking door handle fixed. No need to procrastinate any longer. (Actually I have a couple of real reasons, but for the point of the post we will say they don’t exit.) Just get it done already. Stop putting off those things that you really need to take care of. Let go of the hassle of having those issues or items hanging around in your head. Clear up space in your mind and in your life by taking care of business, okay?

See, all of these great life lessons came from one broken door handle. I can hardly believe it actually, now that I’ve figured it out. Something that drives me a wee bit crazy daily has actually done me some good. (And by a wee bit, I may mean that it sometimes completely, utterly and undeniably makes me mad, as in crazy mad. Also, I don’t feel bad using the term “crazy” here because, I may actually be crazy, so it’s okay. Just this time.)

Have you ever had something like this happen that reminded you of some important life lessons? Tell me about it? I’d love to hear!

Trouble in Paradise: Vacationing with Depression and Anxiety 

 

 FYI, I’m in Florida visiting my parents along with one of my children at the time of writing this post.

 Apparently I brought some friends with me on this vacation of mine. We’ll call these friends depression, anxiety and bipolar disorder. PTSD is always with me too, I guess, but it likes to lurk or hang far back so I don’t know it’s there until the most unlikely of moments and you know, all of these guys can be pretty sneaky.
I don’t expect to see them when I’m traveling or even during preparation for a trip, but they decided to show up, darn it. I’ve actually been experiencing a little bit of a vacation from these friends, so I thought. (We all have friends from whom we need a vacation, right?). They started to make themselves known the day I left for my trip. I think they were actually hiding behind the curtains the day before. Either way, it turns out they never really left.

It’s kind of a problem when you’re a grown up traveling with your ten year-old child and it takes all of your fortitude to hide the tears you want to shed because suddenly you’re gripped with fear, sadness and intense anxiety about leaving your husband and home. I mean, you don’t want to freak your kids out about flying or traveling in general, so you suck it up as long as you are able. Plus, I really don’t think my child, who has some anxiety of his own, would have benefited from that whole “mommy can’t adult today” business in this instance.

The tears fell for me after I spoke to my husband once we arrived safely in Florida, but I had to wipe those away quickly again because I didn’t want to cause my mom to feel bad. And then I thought “This is not the way you’re supposed to feel when you embark on a new adventure, especially one in Florida!”

That’s the thing about these kind of friends…they really like to ruin everything. Last night at dinner my mom told we we were going to go have dinner the next night with some friends of hers and family of ours that also live here. Instantly my eyes shot her a look of complete surprise and my heart sank. It was as if all the darkness I had been fighting fell upon me again. That fast. I was terrified and all I could think was “Please don’t make me do this!” Honestly I was a little annoyed with my mom…doesn’t she know me at all? But…it’s a lot to expect someone to understand social anxiety when they don’t have it. It’s also a lot to expect her to know the intensity with which I’m having to deal with it right now.

I spoke up. I probably could of done a better job of communicating my needs but she heard me and ended up canceling the plans. I’m relieved. I’m grateful that my mom tried to understand as best as she could. But it’s also sad that participating in normal and small gatherings is too much for me at this time.

I can feel depression lurking in the small sadness that is constant. I can feel it in my body and I feel it as a weight in my eyes, as weird as that may sound. I feel depression in a lack of enthusiasm. I don’t feel excitement. I feel kind of numb. And I know what I normally feel like when I go on vacation…it certainly isn’t numbness. This, dear ones, is not feeling like paradise, even though there are signs all around that say it is. My parents even have a mural painted on one of their walls (a big one) with beautiful images of palm trees and the declaration that it is indeed another day in paradise!

I’m trying really hard to not let these pesky “friends of mine” take the fun out of everything while I’m here. My mom and I were able to do our Bible study together last night and that was pretty cool. We also had some art time and she showed me how to do zentangle. These kinds of activities really bring a sense of peace to my soul. I’m surrounded by so much beauty and opportunities for fun. I’m doing my best to take in the little things and focus on God’s creations….from a flower, to a palm tree, to the love of my parents.

I’m determined, these guys aren’t going to ruin my vacation, but it may just not feel like paradise this time. And, I guess that is okay. It’s just the way it is right now.

It Really is Bipolar Disorder

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I was diagnosed just a few months ago. I suppose I always had a hunch. Others in my family history have dealt with this disease. But I thought I only had major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder (along with it’s friend social anxiety) and ptsd and oh yeah, I’m a recovering alcoholic, too. (This long list just made me laugh a little out loud, I suppose it’s because I have an odd sense of humor. . .I think it’s called gallows humor.)

I’ve experienced symptoms of these other mental health issues since my teenage years. I have always been told what I was dealing with was major depressive disorder and major depression I have always had, off and on. I’ve had 3 hospitalizations now, 4 if you count the outpatient partial hospitalization program I went through a few months ago. But maybe it wasn’t until I became more knowledgeable about the symptoms of these different disorders, or until I noticed the times when I overspent money and/or times I felt super euphoric for no real reason or for the littlest reason only to come crashing down in mood quite rapidly. I’m not sure exactly when, but something in the back of my head thought it was possible. Something else in my head said, “No way! You don’t do the extreme things that are said to be symptoms of bipolar disorder.” Even my psychiatrist said I didn’t meet the criteria when I mentioned it to him a few years ago.

But this Fall, when the most severe symptoms of depression worsened and I began my descent into the pit, my therapist at the outpatient program I mentioned previously confirmed my concerns, then in November, the doctor at the hospital where I was an inpatient confirmed my concerns. And finally, my new psychiatrist after the hospitalization confirmed it as well. Bipolar Type 2 was the general consensus.

Something in me really didn’t believe it though. Something in me didn’t want to have that diagnosis. Something told me that I was going to face a whole new set of stigmas and I did not want to deal with that. Something in me said, no way.

But I took the new medications. I hated the new medications. We switched around some of the medications. We’re still switching around some of the medications. And, believe it or not, I think I’ve turned a corner and I don’t feel like dying, most of the time. (Praise God.) But something different is going on with me now.

I’m waking early in the morning before my alarm clock goes off. (This is really odd for me, as I am a sleeper!) I can’t fall back asleep these days. I now have new found hobbies and interests that are consuming most of my thoughts and time. As in, I can’t stop thinking about them and all the things I want to do and what I should do next and all of the ideas are flooding my brain at once. My mind is racing, as if it’s trying to catch something and I’m running with it (and running really isn’t something I do). It’s not simply that I have a lot of thoughts, I have a lot of thoughts all at once and they are grand and filled with the greatest of optimism and I feel high. My days are full somehow. There are so many things to get done! But guess what? None of them are things that I really should get done. If it weren’t for my meds I doubt I would go to sleep at night at all here recently, at least not until very very late. Additionally, I may or may not be spending money on things I shouldn’t be…and rather impulsively.

I added all these thing up in my head and I did a little research on “what hypomania feels like” and it turns out, I could so relate.

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist yesterday. They took my blood pressure. It was unusually high for me, not dangerously high, but high for me. I found this interesting considering how I’ve been feeling. I told my doctor about all of these symptoms I’ve been having and yep, she thought I was definitely experiencing hypomania. She believes I’m in what’s called a mixed state right now, because I still have depressive thoughts and moods, but am also experiencing the hypomanic highs. She’s made a few adjustments to my meds (again) and now I’m a little worried I’m going to feel sad all the time again.

And truth be told, I’m also a little sad that it’s true. I really do live with bipolar disorder and I have been for a long time. I suppose there is a little bit of grieving that goes on with any new diagnosis, a grieving for the health we had or the health we thought we had, whether it be true or not.

The good news is I finally know what I’m dealing with and I honestly have no reason to attach any kind of stigma to myself. Living with bipolar disorder is no more shameful than living with arthritis. Unfortunately, if I’m really being honest, it’s going to take me a while to believe that in my heart, because for some reason I feel a little more faulty and a little more broken right now.

 

If you or someone you know is struggling right now, please reach out to LIFELINE 1(800)273-TALK for help and support.

 

I’m Kind of a Mess

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I’m kind of an ever-lovin’ mess. You know, the completely disheveled kind, that can only manage a few things in a day or their mind explodes? That kind.

I really don’t want to be this way, I want to have my stuff together. And I have the best intentions of doing so…but then the morning comes, the kids are off to school (and that can be a big ordeal, let me tell you – youngest child has severe autism – need I say more?), my psych meds leave me all groggy or my fibromyalgia pain has kicked in, or both…and there I am trying to muster the energy to do anything. I get really stuck at this point, trying to determine which way to go and what to do next.

Today, I took care of something really important that took about an hour…and then I did my new devotional and then, I closed my eyes. Two hours later and it’s like most of my day was gone which makes this mommy grumpy. I’m supposed to give myself some slack for this kind of thing, I’m supposed to go easy on myself as I’m in the process of coming back from a long dark horrible bout of bipolar depression. But my head, says things like, “You’re a loser. You’re ridiculous…you need a nap after being up for 3 hours? Why can’t you get your act together? You have a ton of laundry to do…don’t you think your family really needs you to do that for them?” And then, naturally I feel like crap.

That crappy feeling, well, it leads to more crappy feelings and then I’m sitting here at the computer telling you all how crappy I feel. It’s kind of a bad deal. And actually, I just chuckled at myself and sighed…because I guess I’m on this roller coaster of ups and downs. And, I did do a couple of other important adult type things before I got on this computer that I’ve been putting off for a long time. So that’s good and positive and I should be a little bit proud of that. Sometimes, the little steps are big steps and the little steps take you to the same destination as big steps…and my current destination is recovery.

I don’t know if I will ever feel like one of those people who “has it all together” but hopefully someday I’m going to feel proud of myself and proud of my accomplishments, big or small, without downgrading them. Hopefully, I’m on the road to being me again and that road is just going to have its moments, good and bad, just like everyone else’s does.

Mental Illness Steals My Weekend


As I browse through the streams of Twitter, my feed on Facebook and posts on Instagram, I see the ever present enthusiasm for the weekend every single Friday. Quotes like “TGIF” and “It’s Friyay!” are prolific. But instead of joining in the joy, something in my soul sinks as the weekend approaches each and every week.

I used to join the masses in the anticipation of a weekend where the family gathers and activities we are unable to do during the week become possibilities. Movie nights, quality time with the kids and my husband, church…all used to be a part of the little joys I used to look forward to. But something has changed and I don’t like it. In fact, I very very much don’t like it.

Depression and anxiety can be very selfish. They have taken things from me. They have taken my sense of peace, confidence and ability to enjoy my family.

When the weekend comes I am filled with anxiety over what is expected of me, albeit these are normal things, they invoke a new kind of stress. I feel mixed emotions at the thought of watching a movie with the family as a racing heart and chest pain has become customary during this time. I fret and worry about attending church as I am required to be present and seen by people that know me…people who can see all the weight I’ve gained in recent months and people who care for me, yet because of the fact that they have eyes and know me, they feel foreign and intimidating. I panic at the thought of the possibility of needing to care for my children on my own for any extended period of time if my husband has to work or coach a basketball game.

During the week, when the kids are off to school, I can make a trip to Target or Hobby Lobby without the dread of being seen. For some reason I get the feeling I’m just one of the masses and can blend in, almost invisible and shielded from the scrutiny I imagine in my head. But during the weekend, with kids in tow, I am visible and open for judgment, in my mind’s eye.

It’s a horrible feeling, dreading my weekends. There’s guilt and shame attached to it all, too. Thoughts like “Who in the heck doesn’t like the weekend? What kind of mother wouldn’t want more quality time with her kids? What kind of Christian dreads going to church?” plague me.

I look forward to the day, that must be coming, that I once again enjoy the weekend. It will be a good day, indeed.

*I’m entering this post in the #Iwouldlikeyouto linky hosted by And 1 More Makes 3. Muddle over and check it out!*

Anatomy of Suicidal Thinking

You may or may not know that in November I made an attempt to end my life. (It feels rather bold, unusual and uncomfortable to start a post that way.) Since that event, and before, it’s been a long and difficult road to trudge, to say the least.

In October my husband and I became keenly aware that the depression was becoming severe. I was becoming more frequently plagued with thoughts of suicide and self-harm. (Are you thinking self-harm is just for teenagers? Well, you’re wrong.) In an effort to stave off the beast, I was admitted to a partial hospitalization program where I spent the day with other struggling folks and a therapist for group sessions Monday through Friday for three weeks. I learned a lot, felt very safe there and enjoyed the structure, as much as a severely depressed person can enjoy these things. 

I guess I felt like I was supposed to be all better after that, but I wasn’t and that was frustrating. I began my search for a therapist and went on a couple visits but I felt just as bad as I had before I started the treatment. Efforts to diagnose me accurately and to find medication that would be therapeutic were rather conservative. It’s clear now that neither the treatment nor the medication protocol were as aggressive as they could have been or should have been. 

I was diagnosed with bipolar II, a diagnosis I am still a bit unsure of, as I think I might be of the rapid cycling nature, but bipolar none-the-less. All my life I have been diagnosed with major depressive disorder, along with a few other friends like anxiety and ptsd. 

On November 8 I ended up in the ICU after taking a very large amount of a medication I had on hand to treat anxiety that is also used to treat high blood pressure. I spent a couple days there recovering from the effects of the overdose and then I was transferred to the hospital’s psych unit for a couple more days. Since then I have finally found a therapist I think will really work for me, a good psychiatrist and I’ve been on a long journey of medication trial and error.

All of this to say, that after my experiences and with the knowledge I have obtained before, during and after treatment, I came up with what I believe to be a pretty accurate depiction of the anatomy of suicidal thinking. I’m not a doctor, psychiatrist, psychologist, social worker, therapist or anything close…although I did major in psychology in college, so please treat this info as just what it is, a sick person trying to better understand their illness. 

And so, here it is…

   
 
Like my very professional hand-written document? Me too. 

Some may think that my starting premise of a negative or triggering event is inaccurate, but for me this can include the transition of actually becoming depressed rather than a specific event or trigger, that in itself can be the trigger. But, I think that once one is already actually experiencing depression the negative event or experience can be something that stands alone to set suicidal thinking in motion. Additionally, this can happen multiple times or you can be stuck in one long dreadful period of suicidal thinking.

“Normal” or healthy individuals won’t get stuck in the stages of self-loathing/negative thoughts. They will move back to a normal thought pattern. Those of us struggling with mental health issues can get stuck here or at any one of these stages or move on down the road to suicidal thoughts.

What do you think? How accurate is my depiction to you or for you? If you don’t experience a mental health issue maybe this will help you understand part of the thinking and experience of a loved one who does. 

I look forward to hearing your feedback and thanks for reading! I’ll be here, muddling through the muck of all this messy stuff, waiting! 

Beginning Again with Therapy

Bright mint rubber boots in the garden summer house background

I was discharged from the hospital at the end of the second week of November, 2015. I knew immediately that I had to find a therapist, because that is what you do after you attempt suicide. I’m not a stranger to therapy, but admittedly it had been a while. I began my quest a bit slowly and timidly. It’s not easy to decide to whom you want to bare your soul, now is it?

After a couple of different attempts, I believe I have found someone who I can really work with. And, I kind of can’t believe it. I’ve been seeing her for about a month or so now, once a week, and I have experienced on two separate occasions (after leaving her office) ensuing really good days , which I have found totally perplexing, surprising and ultimately…good.

When you get used to so many days strung together that are bleak at best, it’s rather obvious when a good one comes along. When you can somehow associate that with your therapist and the work you are doing in therapy, I think that’s definitely a positive. Now positives aren’t something I’m used to talking about as of late…but hey…I’m working on it.

I find myself looking forward to the opportunity to share…to share my dark stuff. I want to share my secret feelings and frustrations with someone, someone that won’t be hurt or mad or frightened by them. I want to spill it. I want to spill my feelings all over the place like a can of red paint on bright white carpet. I want to look at it and see it and look at it with someone who won’t be upset with me for tipping over that can. I’m ready to talk.

The first couple of visits with my new therapist have been filled with a lot of history giving, the getting to know you drill and working on coping techniques – so that as we dig deep I have tools to handle the emotions and responses that will likely arise. I like that she is focused on helping me to develop these strategies and to learn to really use them. The trick is I have to remember to practice and to practice and to practice again. I’m not real good at that, historically. But since the paint is gonna spill eventually, it might be time I change my ways.

I went through an outpatient treatment program in October (before the suicide attempt) and came away with a gazillion handouts and info on coping techniques. I even put them in a binder with sheet protectors so that it would be easy to reference. Guess how many times I’ve opened that binder?

Zero. Zero times.

So now, with a new therapist by my side, it’s truly time to get better, make the effort and to practice using the tools she is providing me. If I don’t, I’m just going to end up back where I started…that’s not a place I want to go.

Just a Mommy Muddling

Decide

 

I’m thinking it’s probably about time I get back to something…something that more resembles me, the person I lost a few months ago…again. I’m a mommy muddling my way through life with lots of ups and downs…like the bipolar II kind and the major depression kind and the fibromyalgia kind and the anxiety kind, to name a few. I muddle through things like sickness (my own and others) and taking care of several children that range from small to big (a couple of which are on the autism spectrum and all of which are unique and wonderful in their own difficult and also fabulous ways). I do this with my unbelievably patient and loving husband by my side. Despite that, I often feel alone and my muddling is sometimes struggling instead.

But here I am, ready to do something for me. I need a space to muddle around and say what I really feel, what I really want to say and what I need to say but sometimes can’t. I’m an anonymous mommy right now, because some of the truth and irrational thoughts and real-life stuff I’m gonna say may not be something I want to share or to be shared with my immediate family or friends. I want that freedom right now.

So, it’s time. It’s time I do some things for me so that I can be a better, healthier me and I can eventually be a me that I’ll be proud of again, and maybe others will too.