Emotions. I have them.

Today my car decided to overheat on the way to work. Massively. Not completely destructively, but bad enough that we sat on the side of the freeway for 20 minutes.

My interpretation of the terminology is this: my car is allergic to its radiator fluid, threw up most of it in my parking stall last night, and continued to spew out what we force fed it on the limping drive home. My poor mechanical baby is sick.

I have no skills in the area of fixing this. This terrifies me on that level that hates feeling out of control.

A Curious Consequence

Nearly a year ago, I took a "Long Walk." That's what some of my friends requested I call my attempted suicide.

I walked close to 15 miles from my house toward the Salt Lake, determined to float in 40 degree water until I felt the sleep of the cold.

I wasn't dressed for the weather - on purpose. I walked as fast as I could to get there before anyone could catch me on the main roads. I knew no one would have a clue where to look for me, and I was right. As soon as I hit the lake bed, I crossed as far from the causeway as possible so I couldn't be seen from the road, and kept the same pace through the sand as I tried to find the water.

Of course, I never found it. When I finally reached the wet sticky mud of the actual shore, my shoes squelched through the stench as the lake itself receded from me. Finally I yelled at the heavens, feeling betrayed that what had felt like the right and only choice was being taken from me, and headed toward the causeway so I could walk home.  

I can't describe the distance. Even now I look back and wonder how in the world I did it. Sheer determination, I guess.

I didn't realize how much I hurt until the guy who drove me to the gates let me out of his truck so I could wait for my husband. Walking to the other side of the gate to stand under the light pole took sheer force of will. I was determined not to let that man or his wife see what kind of shape I was in.

When I got home, after sleeping and freezing for I don't know how long, wow. I had to have help walking. I couldn't support my own weight for the first couple of days. I limped around, my hips and legs bundles of misery as I tried to function. I can't remember how long it took for slowly crossing from my room to the kitchen to feel doable.

Walking. 

Walking sounds so simple, so every day. People run and walk 15 miles easy for marathons all the time. 

Before the walk, I loved to do cardio. Kickboxing, treadmill, fun upbeat video exercises like P90x and TaeBo, I would do it all. I had a gym membership and I LOVED going at any time of day. It was something I could do that was wonderful, freeing, and felt good. Stuff I could never do while pregnant.

Now it's stuff I cannot do anymore.

It's been 363 days, and walking the mile to work still hurts my feet. Sprinting from the girls shirts to the phone in the fitting room - what, 20 feet? - to answer the phone makes my groin muscles ache for 3-4 days.

I walk to work because it's good for me. The fresh air is great for my mental health, whether it's rainy, snowy, overwhelmingly hot, or perfect outside, the walk is *always* beneficial. Especially on my bad days.

So mentally, the walking is great.

Physically, not so much.  I can tell I'm converting some fat to muscle because I need to wear a belt with my pants now. (Whoo Hoo!)  But the pain that accompanies the wimpy exercise is something that confuses me.

It's not nearly as unbearable as the pain that accompanied my last three pregnancies, don't get me wrong. THAT pain made getting out of bed, getting up from chairs, walking, riding in a car, pretty much any kind of movement, make me cry. Oh it was excruciating torture.  

However, when *not* pregnant, my body was pretty much willing to do anything. 

Now, dangit, it feels like my body will never forgive me for what I put it through. 

By now I should have recovered from the exhaustion and the muscle strain. Yet after a few hours at work it's hard to walk after I get home, and yes, I have awesome shoes.

I don't understand. I assume it's an inconvenience for surviving. No, that's wrong. It's a side-effect of the attempted suicide. The surviving part includes this additional issue on a day-to-day basis. It's worth it for the survival part, though. 

I still walk to work. I still love my job. I endure the pain because it's common enough that it's background noise while I'm working. 

At home, it takes a few hours before my feet stop yelling at me, but I've gotten used to it.

I may never know the biological reason for the weirdness. I wish I could understand the science behind the muscle changes and my body not functioning even after twelve months. 

I feel like it wouldn't bother me so much if I knew the why I haven't healed as well as I thought I would. 

It's sad that the idea of hiking to Timpanogos Cave with my kids sounds too hard. So does visiting the zoo, the aviary, DisneyParkOfChoice, etc. My current reality is Let me stay home, please, please, please.

Consequences. Sometimes they make zero sense.

Thoughts On Self Image

I looked in the mirror after my shower today and realized that I liked who I saw.

I don't mind saying that for the first time in my life, I think my breasts are beautiful. I am not overly blessed in this department, but I as I studied myself I realized that they are not horrible looking.

Sure, there are a few stretchmarks from six pregnancies and nursing six babies, but their shape, size, and the way they hang is perfect for me. I discovered one is larger than the other. Yay child #5 only wanting the left side. They are soft, creamy colored, and with the added weight I have put on due to medication and a few years of sedentary life, I actually have cleavage when I wear a bra.

This may seem as TMI to a lot of you, but it's groundbreaking for me. Body image is a big deal.

It's one thing to be able to determine the state of my mental health if I can look at myself in the mirror and like the person I see or not. That usually has nothing to do with my overall physique, but what I see when I look in my eyes.

But to be able to look at my body as is, stretch marks, lumpy I've-had-six-kids rolls on my stomach that will never go away without elective surgery, thicker arms and thighs than I ever imagined I would have, and accepting it, thinking it's beautiful and mine, is a first for me.

When the first mood stabilizer, Risperdal, had me gaining weight and tipped me over the 200 lb mark, I didn't ever want to look at an outfit in the mirror again. Even after I changed meds, I've pretty much stabilized between 205-215 no matter how much walking, kickboxing, trips to the gym, etc that I do.

And for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I not only can live with it, I can feel good in my skin.

When I say a very long time, I mean in probably 42 years. Well, ok, there were times when I was in starvation mode, working two jobs, sleeping 3-5 hours a night for 2 years, and barely having time to catch one meal a day that I could fit into some super cute outfits and felt like I matched what the world sees and expects.

Of course, when that ended, my body said, "FOOD!!  Save it up for the next time she stops eating!!"

Also, given the fact that I am fairly close to 5'9", the extra fifty pounds could look much worse. Lets be real here, on my mom, who is 5 feet tall, fifty pounds would *really* show.

I wish, very much, that when I was younger and had that fit body, the teenage health and vibrance of life in my 20's that I had been just as comfortable in my skin. There's something freeing, something that shines from within when there is that comfort.

Only now do I feel that for real. Yes, I have cellulite. Some days I comment on it, because it's simply a fact that it's there. And because of that, not every piece of clothing is going to look good on my shape. And sometimes I will and do get exasperated at something that looked so good on the hanger not looking good when I put it on.

This is simply a fact, and that's something that I can't always be happy about. But that doesn't mean I feel like I'm ugly or unlovable.

I think that's the most important bit. I think that somewhere along the way, I've decided that yes, I'm lovable. Just as I am.

Perhaps this has to start on the inside. When the bad days are bad and those evil demons of depression are telling me that I'm horrible and worthless, it starts with my thoughts. I feel like my soul is twisted out of shape, a disgusting waste of energy that shouldn't be a smudge on anyone else's existence.

I know that distorts what I see in the mirror. It's like a dark overlay, causing me to hate what I see on the outside because I can't love what is on the inside.

That being said, I didn't suffer from clinical depression when I was younger. I had NO idea what it was like until after my son was born and I had post-partum.

I knew that my grandparents loved me, and I knew that God loved me. That was always a given for me, and somehow that was some stable rock that has stuck somewhere in my brain and has never budged. It's the tiny granite core of the sea-bed that makes up my emotions, self-image, and view of the world.

Yet attached to that core is the fear that they will stop loving me if I make too many mistakes. If I turn out not as perfect as they had hoped. I am fallible; I have certainly not lived the life of a saint, and I have a great many regrets.

For once in my life, for real, I have discovered that people love me no matter what. Perhaps not all people. But my true friends, my brothers, my sister, my mother. No matter what. And maybe that's helped me realize that it's okay for me to love me, too.

Loving me includes loving the lumps and rolls and imperfections that come with aging, motherhood, and the quirks that make up my body.  It's pretty darn cool to feel this way. :)

Therapeutic Homework

Saw the doc this evening. This time the homework sucks. *sigh*

Sometimes I feel it would be so much easier if he said, "Oh honey, I just can't believe you'd be expected to blah, blah, and blah. And Persons B and F should know better than to *insert verbs and scenarios here.* You're so picked on; here, have a pass on any accountability for the next year or so."

Pbbbbth.

This time I'm not telling what my homework is because I don't like it and I'm all pouty faced about it. Not even kidding. He told me my face would freeze like this if I didn't stop it.

Probably doesn't help that I am going to have to do some serious brainstorming and personal evaluation to come up with some answers for this poopy, poopy, poopy challenge in my development. This whole thing is covered in poop.

Tell me again why I want help? Why I want to get better??

I think my can-do attitude tried to get up and go, but slipped on the ice on the viaduct, froze when it connected with the chain-link fence, and then shattered as it dropped onto a passing semi.

Sigh. Everyone has issues. I just realized I don't like mine.

The last few days/week I've felt paralyzed by overwhelming memories from my childhood. Along with the accompanying anger, resentment, and hurt that I honestly thought I'd let go and forgiven.

Today I found an article that talks about learning how to let that go with "start by doing this" instructions. Now that I have a starting point, I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I am so tired of this baggage. My chemical imbalances don't need that extra fuel to add to the depression's fire.

aaaaand, this is probably another one of those TMI posts, but dangit... I feel like my brain has just shut down regardless of how hard I'm trying to move forward and be creative and be me. So this is where I am today. Sobby, reliving past gunk that I'm sure my friends and immediate family are sick of hearing about, and attempting to control my temper, my frustration with not knowing how to let go of this, and that desperate fear that maybe I'm the same way.

Uck. I shouldn't be talking about this one on FB. I don't want to point fingers and do the shaming, blaming thing. I'm the one holding on, it's on me to let go. I'm a big girl with my big girl panties dammit, I can do this.

A Child's Wish List

Some things in life hurt. It's especially hard for me when things that hurt me when I was young are amplified ten times or more for other children. This list makes my heart break.

A friend of mine posted this on facebook yesterday, a copy of a wish list from a foster child in Oklahoma.

I read this and was amazed that with a few exceptions, this list could have been mine from childhood. While inducing tears, it also made me extremely grateful for the good things I did have as a child.

* Love. My mother loved us unconditionally

* A Drug/Alcohol free home
* We had soap, and I remember having a toothbrush--sometimes?

* I don't recall ever getting head lice or having cockroaches. 

Everything else, well... yeah. Food and water -- I could tell you stories about my mother hauling 5-gallon buckets of water from neighbors houses to use for cooking/drinking when ours was shut off. Or the heat being shut off in the middle of a Wyoming Winter. 

I don't want to talk about my toys and our (my brothers and my) games being sold. Those memories kind of suck.

Nice shoes and nice clothes were a fantasy. Especially nice shoes. My brothers all needed shoes sooooo badly. I had better luck with the hand-me-downs because other girls' things tended to last longer than my girl things (because I wore my stuff out just as fast as my brothers.) Boys are harder on clothes, period, though, so even their hand-me-downs were already worn through. It's not like we were picky, though. We'd wear what we had, because it's what we had, even if the soles of our shoes flapped around like we were our own drum line.

By the time I was 12, I gave up on the idea of trying to be feminine. I didn't own any church shoes, so I became very vocal about refusing to be girlie or attempting to be feminine - you know, by NOT wearing things like nylons or pumps or whatever cute things the girls were wearing in the mid-80's. My grandmother had made some nice dresses, but I paired them with the first socks I could find (mated or not) and the pair of  shoes I owned - usually a pair of ugly black sneakers.  -- I mean UUUUUGGGLY.

It's an interesting thing, what we come up with as coping mechanisms to deal with the perceived judgments of others.

-- You're gonna look at me and sniff because of my shoes? yeah, well, I don't *want* to look like wimpy girly you and your sore feet and uncomfortable nylons. If I'm gonna sit here for three hours, I'm at least going to be comfortable. So there.--

I wasn't in the foster system. I know for a fact that I have not had a life as hard as most of theirs has been. But my childhood had it's own special brand of hellish that instilled empathy for anyone who writes a list like this.

Here I am, thirty years later, sitting in front of a nice computer in a clean home with sheets on the beds, paid utilitites, and a healthy mix of new and hand-me-down clothes in everyone's closet. 

I am extremely proud of my brothers and who they have grown up to be. One has a Ph.D. in Engineering, One owns his own business. One works hard at a good job that is an hour's drive from his home and family. They each grew up to be good and caring men. They each served honorable missions. They are each wonderful, fun, and just as imperfect as the rest of us. But they grew from where they came from. I wish everyone could see it. Not everyone does, nor does everyone give them credit for being who they are when things could have turned out so much worse.

I am somewhat biased when it comes to my brothers, yes. We survived. We more than survived, we grew from what we endured. And we all respect and love our mother for everything she sacrificed and endured for and with us. She went without food more than we did. She... was amazing.

I cannot say that I am as accomplished as my brothers. I do have my degree, and I maintained a 3.86 gpa (with kids and while pregnant with kids). I climbed my way up the corporate ladder and could be working in a much higher position in the hotel industry if I had chosen to stay in that field. I chose mommyhood instead.

All of that aside, I will only feel like I have truly accomplished something with my life when none of my children ever, ever, ever have to write a list like the one above.

Even better, if I can help another child remove something from that list.

I have limitations with service, yes. More now than ever before, but still there are things I *can* do:

* Love people. Truly. So they see it in my eyes when I smile at them.
* drop a surprise box of groceries on someone's porch. (This one is my favorite. My husband and I love this particular act of service)

I know this is a wandering kind of post with no real thesis or aim, just rambling thoughts. So I may as well end here.

I feel hopeful.

I feel sad for those poor children out there that I can't bring into my home because I am not mentally capable of handling them right now.

I want to be able to mother them all. I am so very proud and supportive of a friend of mine who is a foster parent.

I want to ask everyone to please share the love. Just feel it, share it, and don't overlook those poor kids out there who need someone to love them.

Needing Help vs Wanting Help

My daughter has a friend, who for the sake of anonymity we'll call... um... Suzi. Sure, that works.

Suzi has suffered from some form of depression since I've known her as a junior in high school. I don't know if this has ever been treated by a doctor or otherwise diagnosed by some form of professional. Judging by what I have seen of her personality, I would guess bi-polar, but I am certainly no expert. To date, Suzi has had two failed attempted suicides, but no visit to a psyche ward, and as far as I know, no medication.

Last night, Suzi came to visit my daughter. Suzi's mother isn't speaking to her because she doesn't approve of some of Suzi's lifestyle choices. Also, she told my daughter that she had found a way to numb the constant sadness: Percocet.  She'd had a bottle of 36 pills and had five left. After a week.

My daughter, having had to live with me and my struggles the past couple of years, asked some questions.

"Maybe you should go see a psychiatrist?"
"No! They'll lock me up in a white room, with a white gown, and feed me white food."
"No, it's not like that. I went to visit my mom in the psyche ward, it's not like that."
"Well I have friends who've been there, it's like that, I'm NOT talking to a psychiatrist."

So she tried another route:

"Maybe you should come in and talk to my mom. She knows how you're feeling, she can probably help."
"No, I don't need to talk to your mom. I don't need help. I've figured out how to help myself. I'm fine."

So she came to talk to me.

"Mom, how can I help her? She doesn't want my help and she doesn't listen."



I'm not a therapist, but the way I see it is either:  A - we report them for illegal use of a prescription drug, they get put in jail or I pull some strings and have them put in a psyche ward for detox. They don't want to be there, they don't think they need to be there. They smile and nod and do what they have to do to get out, and then go back to their life, one friend less, and still make the same choices.

B - We love her, we continue to try to point out where professional help would be effective, we try to be there without being taken advantage of. And in a rose-colored world, they'd see the light, realize they need help, then WANT the help, and then get it.

B doesn't happen often.

In 28 Days, Sandra Bullock's character didn't want to be in rehab. Thought it was stupid, that she had her life under control, and that the rules for everyday normal people didn't apply to her. And then things happened to her in rehab that caused her to have a change of heart, have some serious introspection, and take a good honest look at the world and people around her. By the time she got out of rehab, she *wanted* the help.

therapy, advice, meds, whatever, they are all available, but they aren't half as effective as they could be if the person being subjected to them either doesn't want them, or doesn't believe they'll help.

A psychiatrist can get the med combination 100% perfect, and it won't do a damn thing if the person is convinced their life sucks, nothing ever goes their way, it's not going to work out, so why bother trying. If it's not worth trying, they're not even going to see the great things around them even when their mood does lift.

A psychiatrist can get the med combination partly right and a person who wants help will notice a difference immediately (Or if not capable, their family will notice) and communicate back and forth with the doc about what's working and what's not.

Depression changes thought processes, so part of being on meds is working to change those negative trains of thought into positive ones. Or if that's not possible, then learn to recognize the rhetoric and de-rail it with something else. If a person isn't willing to examine their thought process, the meds can't do a whole lot to help them, either. Meds can do a little, but meds cannot and will not do the actual thinking for you.

People who WANT help, will find it. People who don't want help but need it, then have it thrown at them, won't be grateful for it. While it might keep them safe and out of jail, they won't truly get better until they want to. That's just how it is.

All that being said, you don't magically heal and get better from depression. you know that, right? But the helps, the coping skills, the meds, the advice, the small things friends  can do, all of that helps and matters. All of that helps dealing with the illness *easier*

I am what I am

I *HAVE* BiPolar Type 2, Depression, and Anxiety.

I *AM* an Artist.
I am a Mother
I am a Friend, Lover, Sister, Aunt, Grandchild, Daughter

I am me.

I am not my illness, nor does it define me. It is something I have to deal with constantly. It is something that I have not completely figured out how to control.

This illness has changed my life, yes. I used to be able to row my boat, listen to the spiritual guidance, and -- haha -- argue with the Lord about where I was going, but I knew how my oars worked, I knew how the boat handled the eddies and rapids, and I felt confident that I could handle any further things my river had to throw at me.

And then I went over a waterfall. When I surfaced, I had to find a new boat - it feels like I had to make it myself, but I know I've had help. I have new oars, and this stretch of river that I'm on has hidden rapids, whirlpools, and very strong undercurrents that I don't know how to navigate anymore.

I've fallen out of the boat a couple of times. And I'm not the one steering. It's extremely difficult for me to ride this river of faith and not know where I'm going or if my boat has leaks because I'm an imperfect builder.

I'm readjusting to how my oars work. How the boat handles and knowing when to adjust course for the dangers and rapids that I can see is very tricky for me, and I haven't quite gotten the hang of it yet.

However, the soul of me, my essence, is still here in the boat, determined to make it to the ocean so I can dance on the beach. I just have to re-learn some of my essentials.

Some days, like today, it seems extremely difficult to row. There are some things that hurt too much. Last night it seemed almost easier to let the current take me into the rocks. Not that I considered that option for longer than a half second. I'm too stubborn for that, and I really don't want to capsize again.

I am not my illness.

I am still here.

I dream vivdly, I love deeply, I play enthusiastically, and laugh loudly.

Conversations with Shoes

Crocks:

Crocks: Yo, hon! You wanna do some yard work?

Me: Ok, sure. Let's get something done.

Crocks: Listen, sweety, don't hide me in the closet. I'll be right here when you need me. Looks have nothing on comfort, hon.

Me: Awesome. I'll grab ya when I need ya.

Hiking Shoes:

Boots: Heeeey, you are doing yardwork? You know you want me.
Me: I know. But, laces. That means effort.
Boots: I'll protect your tootsies from all the gunk out there. I'm good at it. I'm great for more than just hikes, you know.
Me: I know. And I love you. But laces.

Sandals: I knew you'd pick me; let's do this.
Me: Awesome. Your velcro is my favorite. Let's get that yard mowed.
Sandals: Whoo! That was fun, what now?
Me: A shower. My feet are grass stained. This is why I have boots...

Boots: I told you so!

Slippers: 

Me: My toes are warm and comfy!!
Slippers: Don't wear us outside in the snow! You have other shoes with which you can drive, walk to the garbage, get the mail, or pick up a child from school!
Me: But that would mean taking you off, and my toes are warm and comfy!
Slippers: You're really going to wear us to Ihop? In the rain? for the Girl Scout Pajama breakfast?
Me: Yes. And my toes are warm and comfy!
Slippers: We're not going to be beautiful for long, you know that.
Me: Yes. But my toes will be warm and comfy.

Dress Shoes:

Dress Boots: Girl, you lookin' FINE. MMM HHMMMMM. Smexaaaay.

Pumps: Do wear the pearls; it is better to be overdressed than under. And please ignore the boots. They simply don't know better. Besides, have you seen their heel? Can't be trusted.

Exercise Shoes:

White Nike: come on, come on, come ON! Let's go, let's go, let's GO GO GO!
Me: Yeah, but laces. I'd rather do aerobics barefoot.
White Nike: You love the support, you know it. Remember all those great workouts we've had together? Let's go, let's go, let's go!
Me: Nuh-uh. Laces. Maybe next time.



Gray Nike: It's Gym Time!

Me: I miss the gym. I loved the gym. I can't even look at you, now.

Gray Nike: Come on! I'm comfortable and supportive and fit in the gym machines perfectly.

Me: You're not comfortable anymore. You covered my feet in blisters. My entire feet were bruised and sore for nearly a week because of you.

Gray Nike: I wasn't designed for a suicide attempt, I was designed for running and exercise. Come on, you want to be healthy, right? That walk was a good start, let's go for a walk again.

Me: Shut up. You still smell like lake mud. I can't wear you. I can barely stand knowing you're still in my closet.

Gray Nike: I am what I am.

Me: I want to throw you away. I want you to never have existed. I want you to be clean and sparkly and smell like sweat and feet and gym.

Gray Nike: So take me to the gym.

Me: I can't get rid of you. You are as much a part of me as my feet are.

Gray Nike: I'm just a shoe.

Me: You were there. I almost made the walk barefoot, you know. That was part of my original plan. But there you were, part of my workout habit, so on you went. You kept my feet from being ripped apart by the asphalt, gravel, thorns and lake detritus. You absorbed the lake mud. You protected my feet.

Gray Nike: That is what I am designed for.

Me: How can I hate you and love you all at the same time?

Gray Nike I am just a shoe.

Me: You are a constant reminder.

Gray Nike: I am a tool.

Me: You are the worst of me. You are part of me that tried to end everything. Yet you are still here, still whole, and largely unaffected except for the traces of mud.

Gray Nike: I am complicated.

Me: You survived that night with me. You survived the cold, the wind, the dark, the conversations with God. You are as much a survivor as I am. Yet I can't ever wear you again.

Gray Nike: So donate me. I'm sure there's someone else who could benefit from my design and purpose.

Me: How can I get rid of you? I can't do that. You represent my strength of will - my complete and utter stubbornness to get to the lake in the first place. And then the determination to get home when God said no. You are a testament to the ability to fight for what I feel is right, even if what I feel is right is completely wrong. You are a testament to my commitment to do something, even when it's hard.

Gray Nike: Walking was hard that night.

Me: It still is.

Gray Nike: But you kept going.

Me: And so did you. Your soles aren't coming off. The spring in the cushion is still there. You are still a very viable and good shoe.

Gray Nike: So use me.

Me: I already did. I think you met and fulfilled the measure of your creation. I cannot even think of putting you on again. I will re-tread those steps, those miles, those thoughts. I can't do it. But I will keep you. Because while you make me sad, and embarrassed and I wish I could throw you away, I still need you as proof that I survived. That I'm not dreaming the rest of this life.

Gray Nike: An athlete and her shoes.

Me: A warrior and her weapons.

Gray Nike: Together we will survive.

Me: Maybe, but you're still living in the back of the closet until I can come to terms with this.

The Light Switch

Not long after or before my Walk of Doom (which is easier to say than attempted suicide) I posted about how frustrated I was that none of my talents or gifts work any more.

Then slowly things began to change.

About a week after my med change, I began to draw again. And then paint. And it came out beautifully.

Earlier this week, I became able to actively affect how I feel. For instance, today I have a fever, chills, and feel dizzy - and am choosing to enjoy the day instead of feeling miserable. I sat outside in the sun to warm up and enjoyed the sound of the birds, the feel of the wind, and the joy of my son riding his bike up and down the sidewalk.  I don't feel gray, empty, blah, or flat, instead I feel happy. Obviously my body needs to purge something, so I will let it go about its business and I will enjoy the small things.

Yesterday I received a phone call. It was an amazing phone call, truly a gift. I won't go into details, because it's very personal, but a light switch was flipped on. Today when I look out at the world, I don't just see green trees, blue sky, and houses. Today I see the life and the magic behind all that. Oh how I have missed being able to *feel* the world around me. I can feel the life, I can connect to it. I can feel the people and really see them again.

It's not exactly like the world had turned gray, but having that part of my life shut off felt like trying to breathe underwater. Today I can breathe. Today I can feel.

Is it because the meds are working? Hopefully, yes, and also because of the extra help I have received both spiritually and physically.

Is it because I've gone from a low phase into a manic phase? This question is worth serious consideration, and I don't have a definitive answer for it because all I can do is wait and see. But I am not expecting to go down so low again because now some of  my *real* tools are back in play.

It's only been a month since my lowest low. Since the day I honestly thought that returning Home was the right and correct thing to do. I am still stabilizing. I am still finding my footing, and working my way through the myriad of emotions that race through my mind. I still have fears and doubts and I still have a hard time handling basic things that used to be easy.

I'm not out of the tunnel yet, but the light at the end of it is getting bigger and brighter. Baby steps. Sometimes those baby steps are painful, but I am moving forward, readjusting, re-learning, and still living.