The Art of Drama

When I was in High School, I lettered in Drama. I loved the the soliloquy the best. Getting into someone else's head and expressing that emotion from the depths of one soul was one of the things that got me through high school. I loved that. It was my escape.

My children also are drawn to theatre and drama. It makes me happy to see them on stage singing, acting, getting to be someone else for a while.

That's the happy kind of drama. I LIKE that kind of drama.

And then there's the other kind of drama. The kind that tears and rips at your soul, trying to hurt your everything - intentionally or not.  I usually think it's intentional because somewhere behind that drama lurks selfishness or extreme insecurity - or both.

This week, month, no, last couple of months has been drama filled. And not with the good kind.

Firstly, there's a wedding coming up in a day and a half. My 2nd daughter is getting married, and she has put a TON of effort into planning, crafting, and making sure everything is done and prepared on time. Her fiance works with her, and they take each other's opinions and feelings into account. Choosing the venue for the ceremony was a joint decision. The date of the wedding was a joint decision. The invitations were approved by him, while she picked the pictures. I could go on and on.

I'm proud that they're working as a team.

I want to scream in frustration at the drama surrounding the whole thing. It's a wedding. It's a celebration of two people coming together and pledging their lives to each other. And, most importantly - to me - is that it's my daughter's wedding. It's HER day. And someone else is trying to make it about them.

Someone else is making her life miserable and instead of looking forward to this, we're all just hoping to survive it and get it overwith. Because drama. This other person will not stop with the temper tantrums (I am not kiddng. Adult temper tantrums) or the whining. Neither my daughter or her fiance should have to deal with that. The hardest part is that her fiance is the one directly being whined to.

I'd love to shout their name and disparage them to the internet, but I won't. But I'm angry and protective of my daughter because someone else is trying to steal her day. These feelings are making me extremely anxious, and I dread having to do anything wedding related now.

This wedding is something that I don't want other people to whine to me about. My daughter can complain to me about it, but I am not able to handle hearing other people complain about times, dates, or location. It's two days away. RSVP or not, just show up or don't show up at this point. Don't whine to me about it. I cannot handle it, and I don't want to hear it. It's happening whether anyone wants it to or not.

Personally? I want this wedding to happen. These two make each other deliriously happy. He treats her with respect and honor - the way I would wish for any man to treat one of my daughters. She loves him and values his opinion. She takes his feelings into account when making any decision. I am kind of jealous of their relationship. (Ok, hers and my older daughters. Both have husbands who treat them as precious and valued partners.)

Secondly: My husband lost his job a couple of months ago. Now, usually this means tightening the belt and getting through the job hunt. But it's been more drama filled than I can handle. I overreact and freak out about the food in the house. Or lack thereof. For a couple of weeks there I would look at the fridge in despair, trying so very hard not to revert to childhood.

And the rent. Oh my goodness the rent. I do not want to lose my house. For the last two months, our landlords have been extremely gracious in letting the rent be late. They are not the cause of drama, I am. I had to cut my hours at work because the stress was making me inefficient at my job. I feel ineffective at life. I feel like I should be stepping up and fixing the situation, but I am emotionally and chemically unable to succeed at that. But I feel obligated and guilty that I can't fulfill that obligation.

Thirdly: This parenthood thing. Drama. My adult children don't want to confide in me. It hurts. Being put on the 'direct to voice mail' and 'no return text' list makes my heart hurt. I honestly don't know what I've done. I would do my best to rectify it if I could, but I simply don't know. And that feels like drama to me.

My smaller children feel the stress in the household and are acting it out. And I want to cry because more and more they are emulating the short fuse tempers, the harsh words, and the sometimes very mean things that they've heard from their father. Well, I have a temper and super grumpy moments, too, but ... well, maybe I am just as mean? I certainly hope not. But it's hard to see this behavior in my children.

It's even worse given the fact that my 9yo has become terrified of the weather. Any wind, rain, thunder, anything, and she is reduced to a terrified ball of tears and worry. There is no logic to fear, and she won't listen to the logic and comforting words that I can think of to say, hug, reassure.

I can't say she's needlessly worried, considering that there was a tornado in our area a couple of weeks ago. There were some massive thunder storms a few weeks prior to the tornado, some rumbles that shook the house - some lightning flashes that were right above our house and startled all of us.

Fourth: Well, I am a drama queen myself. I feel something and I over-feel it. I recognize the hurt that is under my angry emotions, and I feel both so powerfully that at times I can only send myself to bed and hope the feelings go away. The pity parties over what I don't have and feel like I will never have. The frustration at having so many skills and talents and not being able to fully utilize them anymore. I am angry with myself for feeling this way, because I know very well that I draw on those skills in many different aspects of my life, even though I don't use them 40 hours a week.

I'm angry that I need a doctor's note to prove that I am not capable of working more than part time. And that I have to repeat that it's not temporary. My BiPolar disorder is not going to just go away. Neither is the anxiety. I do what I can to manage it. I do hard things, but it's NOT GOING AWAY.

And... there's me being dramatic. This morning I had to have a meeting with an employment counselor because we had to ask for state help. It's humiliating and awful, but it is what it is. She wants me to be able to work 30 hours a week, and given my management, training, and degrees, I should be able to find work. Yeah. I know that. I HAD management jobs before I became a stay at home mom.

Yes, some days I will admit are simply lazy days. And some days are "hey, I made it out of bed today" Today is an "I need chocolate and lots of it because I'm an emotional ball of cry" day. Today I hate life. Everything - every single stressor, obligation, expectation, and hurt feels like it is weighing me down.

I'm supposed to read this certain thing daily. I do, but today it just made me angry. I'm supposed to pray daily. Today I don't know how to have a conversation with god and sit there for five minutes and listen to him. I don't want to listen. I just want Him to fix things. I know, of course, that's not how life works, but that's how I want it right now.  I want my children comforted, at peace. If they don't want that comfort from me, or if I'm unable to say the right words and offer the right things, that they can get that comfort and peace from some source. Any good source. I wish it were me, but I don't always get my way.

So. whine, whine, whine, drama drama drama. I'm so picked on, me me me.

Therapy

Today was my psychiatrist appointment.

In the past few months since the last time I saw him, I've had a drunk day, some pretty low days where it was a giant effort just to get out of bed, and some normal I'm fine days.

I was reluctant to go see him because I did not want to report on the homework assignment he gave me the last time.

Homework: Approach my marriage like I approach Christmas. Figure out a way to make it fun.

Yeah, I did not like that. He told me my face was going to stick in the expression I was making.

When I reported back to him today, I let him know flat out that completing that assignment was flat out impossible. How in the hell does one make verbal abuse fun????  Is that even possible? I'm thinking whoever managed to do it would be some kind of masochist.  Who in their right mind likes to be criticized and made to feel 2 inches tall and stupid constantly??  How is that fun?

It's bad enough that my daughter has moved out for the rest of the summer and moved in with her fiance. I certainly don't blame her. She deserves to live in an environment where she feels safe and loved and allowed to make mistakes without a huge and loud freak-out session.

So... yeah. I tossed that homework aside and did something else. Bought some books. Had a frank conversation with Mr. Grumpster. Started reading. Told him he needed to get some therapy. He doesn't believe me - he thinks it's just a temper thing. It's not. It's a 'watch what words come out of your mouth' thing. It's a 'stop blaming everyone for not being perfect' thing.  It's a 'do you love this person more than you love ' thing. 

My doctor asked about my energy levels, my ability to focus, my appetite, and on a scale of  1-10 with 10 being the worst, where would I rate my depression. Oh, and any thoughts of suicide. (I can at least say no to that one.)

He feels that my stress levels are contributing to my need for constant sleep and low everything else. I'm pretty sure he's right. He also says that my 'drunk' moments are my brain's version of mania. They're tiny in comparison to regular bi-polar, but they're mania all the same. So... yay. I've gotten stressed enough that mania is back in the works.

I love my doctor because he's very frank with me. He looked at me and said, "We could change up your meds, but you're extremely sensitive to side effects. Not only that, but taking a pill is not going to fix your stress levels at home."

That is true. Messing around with the chemicals in my brain and my body causes all kinds of issues. Right now I'm totally fine with dealing with the nausea/dry-heaving caused by the Effexor. The side effects of the other stuff I've been on so far were soooooo not worth it.

He said the following were my options.

* Therapy - for me. If nothing else, I need someone to talk to in order to face and handle the stress of my marriage and coping skills.  And this was not a suggestion, it was something he said I NEED to do. Not really an option if I want to feel better instead of continually getting worse.

* Couples therapy. I don't know if hubster's willing to do that. He's not even willing to talk to a therapist on his own.

* Um... there was a third thing, but I've forgotten it.

Money might be tight, but I am going to spend the $90/month on the therapist visits. She's worth it, she's amazing, and even though I should probably see her more often than once a month, it's better than nothing.

It's Been A Year

Exactly one year ago, I left home and headed west. By this time (1:26 pm) I had made it to the entrance gate that leads to Antelope Island. 

I stopped there at the picnic table, put my feet up on the bench and slept for a bit. It would be the last time I felt the sun on my face, the last time I felt the wind in my hair, the last everything.

The cement was cool under my back, but that was ok. I would need my body temperature to be low so the shock of the water temperature wouldn't be unbearable. When I reached the water...

Instead of heading to the entrance gate and starting out along the causeway, I headed off into the lake bed. 

For the Great Salt Lake supposedly being this big lake, it was incredibly hard to find the water...

That's a good thing.

It's been a year. I recognize the trauma that my death -- a self-caused death -- would have caused my family and children. I have continued to fight my demons.

Yes, there are times when I still don't want to be here. There have been a couple of days I've wanted to take that long walk again. However, instead of acting on it, I call my psychiatrist, I call my friend who is a therapist. I let people know that I'm in a bad place. 

Communicating is one of the reasons I'm still here.

I have the best friends. I have a great support system in place. Even the people I work with are awesome. Ok, only one knows that I actually attempted to kill myself, but still. I love them.

Earlier this week I was determined to throw a party and celebrate that I've been alive and here and more "with it" than I have been previously. 

Today I woke up and it just isn't one of my better days. On top of that, I'd spent a lot of last night scrubbing down my kitchen. When I woke up, my kids had decided it was a great day to cook corn bread muffins. Crumbs everywhere, the sink full of dishes, and a very grumpy 9yo yelling and crying because her sister is always giving her the muffins with cracks or that crumble.

It's cornbread. There isn't a piece of cornbread anywhere that doesn't crumble. But she refuses to believe that they aren't like muffins.

In spite of the family drama, I am determined to at least make cookies and have something yummy to celebrate the good things. I have kids that I love. I have a house that I love. There is a perfect blue sky, snow on the mountains, and a clean scent in the air.

My daughter who is getting married in October has learned a new song on her Ukelelee (sp?) and it is adorable. 

My daughter who worked so hard to bring a new life into the world has given me the most precious little grandson in the world! 

I have these amazing children with their struggles and their triumphs. I love them so much. 

I truly have been blessed with good things. While there are times that I can't see that, when I honestly feel like I am a detriment to their lives instead of a good thing, today I can see the truth. I do matter to my children, and they do want me to participate in their lives, no matter what stage they are at.

I am a lucky person. I am grateful for the people who have helped me so much. I'm grateful that I've made it through this last year. Here's looking forward to surviving another. :)

This thing I call living

I'm sitting here feeling the effects of missing a dose because I spilled the water on my bedside table yesterday. I forgot to go back and take the meds after I made it to the kitchen when my day started. Today: nausea, my extremities feel constantly tingly/on fire, lucid dreams, and super dizzy. 

It makes me see the ramifications of being on medicine in the first place. I feel my mortality, the tenuous connection I have to sanity, and my frailties. 

While I know I need my psychotropic drugs, the side effects are a fairly big deal. I often wish I didn't have to take them. I wish I had a reliable memory.

Clinical depression 90% of the time requires medication. That's just the way of it. But there are some people who do beautifully on homeopathic, footzoning, diet changes, sunshine regimes, etc. It's definitely worth looking into the non-drug stuff, for sure. I did. Of course, I ended up in the psyche ward because my Bi-Polar Depression isn't the kind of challenge that is going to go away just because I'm stubborn and was raised to think pharma is evil.

There are mental tricks, tips, mantras, breathing techniques, and all other kinds of coping strategies that are awesome and helpful. I use these all the time. 

So many different tools for the so many different versions of mental illness. Not one person's depression is the same as another's. Not one person's Bi-Polar is the same as another's. Same with anxiety, and any of the other mental illnesses that go into this list.

I know there are people who are positive that if I'd just do this one thing, I'd be healed. Today, while making myself get up and deal with the eating, moving, kidlet wrangling, and loss of most of the day, I look at my life and realize that there are a great many things that I have the power to change. .

Yet there are some things that I have no control over. Some things that would require a miracle or two to fix. And while I personally believe that miracles can and do happen, often daily, I have been told 'No' to the removal of this particular challenge. It's something that frustrates me, inspires me, paralyzes me, and kicks me into action just to prove that I'm not a hopeless lump. It's terrifying at moments, humiliating at times when my failures seem so enormous. Humbling at having to rely on others to pick up the slack.

But amazingly enough, it's also rewarding. The amount of people who contact me and tell me how encouraging it is that I'm willing to talk about it. That I show my insides. The fears, the urges - like wanting to run away, or face the wall let the darkness consume me. Or the *need* that sometimes comes to the forefront of my mind, the one that says to take that long walk and disappear into the bottom of the lake that's just over yonder. 

Things I *have* to discuss so they don't become truth. I'm still here. Today that alone feels like a miracle. 

Rob has to have his meds to stay alive. Physically, his body will reject his kidney, and his body will stop functioning if he doesn't have his medication.

My medication is also necessary for my survival. I don't have a transplant, diabetes, or some other horrible disease that is slowly eating away at my ability to live. My body isn't failing. I can breathe, eat, walk, talk, taste my food, not worry about my blood sugar (now that I'm off the risperdal,) etc. 

But without my meds, I won't survive. The chemicals in my brain will change my mental state of mind, my ability to discern truth vs lie in my own thoughts, and my interpretation of communication with others. It will affect my motivation, energy levels, and ability to reason in a logical fashion. It's happened before, affecting my decisions and choices which felt right at the time. 

I suppose I'm being self-involved and unable to focus on those around me today. I have a friend in rehabilitation I should go visit. He had a knee replaced a while back, and then had to have surgery again after part of it tore. Yet driving today would be a very stupid choice, and well... I'm not going to get into the other why's and wherefores of not getting there. But I know he loves company, and I should get over there.

But at the moment, just interacting with my kids feels like the most I can do for serving those around me. I hope on some level it counts.

Oh I feel like I suck right now

‪#‎WaaaahWaaaahSelfPityPost‬

The pitfall of having *me* as the homeschool 'leader' whatever thing I'm supposed to be, is that I forgot I have an entirely different email I'm supposed to be checking.

75 messages from teachers. 75.

If I could remember to check the dang thing, I could remember to push/remind/do my freaking JOB.

Granted, I cannot make the child's choices, but ohmyholycrap, I feel like an immense failure right now. What kind of mother stays oblivious to attempted communication from teachers?????

One more alarm I need to set on my phone as a reminder. Well, assuming the worst doesn't happen. Oh, I can't even tell you how bad it will be if the worst happens. On the plus side, grades are currently pulled up in all but two of the classes, and one of those is waiting for assignments to be graded. If you knew my daughter, you'd know why I was stressing over this. It's a very big deal. And don't tell me public school would be better. Just don't. Again, you don't know my daughter.

this is what my phone looks like:

*alarm: Take your meds
*alarm: get out of bed and shower for work - or heck, shower for hygiene.
*alarm: make dinner
*alarm: Hey, feed yourself lunch/breakfast
*alarm: it's time to read to kids
*alarm: bedtime for kids
*alarm: did you do your writing today?
*alarm: did you do your sketching today?
*work alarm: Break's over. Lunch is over. (timer set for 15 or 30 mins)
*new alarm: Check the homeschool email
*new alarm: check assignments (fridays) - because it's my JOB. And not only do they check child's work, they check to make sure I am being involved and helping.

Alarms because I can't remember a damn thing because my brain doesn't function anymore. And the aphasia, that's annoying, too.

*sigh* The best I can do at this point is try to do better. I can't fix the past. No one can. But uuuuuugh my new brain is frustrating. How am I supposed to be an example of responsibility when I can't remember basic things without reminders?

I KNOW the depression is going to take this and make the guilt and feeling of failure even worse. And if I don't deal with it soon, the anxiety will kick in. I know I'm going to have to stay on top of that so it doesn't spiral down. But I guess right now I'm allowed to feel that way for a few minutes or however long until I handle the guilt and use it as a stepping stool instead of a holycrapISUCK!!!!!

And trust me:  consequences. Oooooh consequences. I may never let this child out of the house until she's 30.

I'm Not Ashamed Of My Mental Illness

Let's be honest, it's not something to be proud of, either. It's not like someone with Diabetes or Muscular Dystrophy goes around saying, "Hey! Look at me! I have an illness! Look at me, look at me, I'm so cool!" I'm not saying that.

What I am saying is that having a mental illness makes me determined to be open, to talk about it, to discuss what I go through.

Well, ok, I process externally so I tend to type up most everything I'm feeling anyway. Once I hit the 'publish' button and send it out into the nether to be read or ignored, the thoughts are no longer bouncing around inside my head.

Talking about the onset of my BiPolar Type 2 / BiPolar Depression, Anxiety, Psyche Ward stay, visits with my psychiatrist, and suicide attempt, are ways for me to cope. So really, this blog and my posts aren't honestly for anyone else; it's to help me process.

So why do I make it public instead of private? Because communicating is sooooo helpful. I'm a little strange that way.

I have found that most others who struggle with the same thing or different variations of these illnesses feel that there isn't anyone who understands.

Do you know why they feel that way? Because people who have never had clinical depression or anxiety have NO IDEA what it is like. I know this, because I'd never, ever, ever had it, nor understood it until I went through post-partum depression after my son was born. Two years of post-partum. That sucked. It was wonderful when that was over!!

The year I turned 40, the mad chemist experimenting inside my brain decided to switch things up on a more permanent basis. This sudden onset was/is not a pleasant one. I say sudden because I was privileged to live most of my life of working and having babies with a normal, healthy, robust amount of energy. I have met and know several people who have struggled with depression their entire lives.

THEIR ENTIRE LIVES!!

I cannot even comprehend living with this, trying to manage this while working - sometimes two jobs - finishing my degrees, and having small children.

These folks do it silently, with few people who understand, listen, or help when needed. They struggle with adulting while dealing with the guilt of not being capable of basic things when it's a really bad day.

They are heroes in my eyes. Do you hear me? HEROES!!!

I fell apart after a year and needed to be hospitalized. I was trying to claw the skin off my face because the pain was the only thing connecting me to reality. After another year, I really did attempt suicide. Coping with the onset of anxiety along with the depression was simply too much. TWO YEARS.  Two years, and I couldn't handle it. Still am attempting to manage it.

So these folks who've lived with it for their whole lives? HEROES. I'm not even kidding.

Some are absolutely ashamed to talk about their mental health or their hospitalizations. Some simply cannot admit that there is an issue because they feel like they should be able to control it.

--- This one was me. I spent a good six or seven months convinced it was some sort of early menopause. My doctor ran just about every blood test possible, checking my hormone levels, my thyroid, the levels of vitamins and minerals in my system, etc. I was convinced that I could talk myself out of it or fix it with every naturepathic or homeopathic strategy I knew.

Nope. Depression. After three or four months of therapy and some low doses of temporary meds, diagnosed with BiPolar depression. No more temporary meds for me. Mood stabilizers AND anti-depressants with some Xanex on the side became necessary. In spite of every alternative health trick I knew. Wahoo. Boy, that went over well with my family. NOT. ---

I need you to realize that some cannot talk about it openly because of private personal reasons. And others simply don't feel safe discussing it with anyone.

This one right there? This is horrible and awful and sooo lonely. Understandable, though, because of the prevalent attitude. You know, the one saying that people who are depressed are using it as an excuse to be lazy. Should just cheer themselves up and get over it. Or claiming anxiety to get out of doing something they just didn't want to do.

*frustrated sigh*

I am one of the very few willing to talk openly about my experiences, my honest thoughts, or the massive grumpy days I have. Currently I have been in a horrible mood for nearly two weeks. Everyone frustrates me, I feel like they're all jerks and inconsiderate. Most of that is me, I know, but it's how I'm feeling.

Logic part of my brain says "don't interact with people right now. At least not the ones you love. Just hug them tight and keep your mouth shut. You get paid to be nice to people at work, so the pretend happy face works there. Wish you could keep pretending at home."

Illogical part of my brain says, "Who cares. Everyone can just go to hell. I want to move and live by myself out in the boonies where I don't have to see anyone, hear anyone, or have anyone getting into my stuff, move it around, break it, or whatever else is making me feel picked on."

Am I ashamed of these thoughts? Well, if I were, I wouldn't be typing them up here. Do I wish I could turn them off? oh yeah.

What I *can* do about these feelings that I cannot control is try to interrupt the tape. I kiss on of my kids' neck up and down until they giggle like mad. Or hug them tight for several minutes. I read out loud. I do anything I can to distract myself and concentrate on anything BUT the thoughts and feelings.

You who don't know Depression don't have a clue how hard it is to have to continue to interrupt these stupid stupid destructive thoughts that run in a loop.

Depression LIES, but it is oh so believable.

I need you to understand this. Those of us who struggle with Depression have our super awful bad days. It's such a fight to get out of bed. And some days that's the only battle we win. If our sinks are full of dishes, the floors not swept or vacuumed, it doesn't mean we don't care about living in a yucky environment. Oh, trust me, we care very much.

A depressive's messy house means one of two things: 1 - There are a bunch of kids living there and it's laughable to even think of summoning the energy to reinforce daily chores.

2 - Looking at the mess and seeing all that needs to be done is overwhelming. Knowing where to start is simply impossible and makes us cry. Summoning the energy to pick up a pair of socks and carry it to the laundry basket is hopeless.We feel guilty and horrible because any normal human being should be able to do something so simple. So we sit and stare at those socks and wish we could do it, wondering what the hell is wrong with us that we can't even do that simple little thing.

And anxiety? It's the weight of an elephant sitting on your chest, the pain of drawing in a breath, panic caused by ... ?? something?? People? some thought? Noise? What the heck triggered this?? And then can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, curling up, shaking, then sobbing uncontrollably for AN HOUR!!

Ok? YOU PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER EVER EVER IN YOUR LIFE EXPERIENCED THIS?? Shut up about us folks with these types of mental illness being lazy. Just stop it. Right now.

This is real. I struggle with this.

I am not ashamed of the symptoms of this illness because they're real. Are you ashamed for having a runny nose when you have a cold? Or a raspy voice when you have a bronchial infection? I'm not proud of my symptoms; oh, they are so very frustrating.

Trust me, I'll tell you up front if I'm being lazy about cleaning, or just can't do it. Believe it or not, I DO recognize the difference. One involves the inability to summon motivation and energy. The other is simply not wanting to do it.

When I don't want to do work I hear my grandmother's or my mother's voice telling me "Sometimes you just have to do what you don't want to do."

Being incapable of doing the work means having to tell those voices to shut the hell up, because ranting at myself won't help me feel any better. It certainly won't make the weight of the world go away or prevent the fog of darkness from jumbling my thoughts so I can't concentrate.

Do you understand? This is my reality.

I have received so many messages, emails, phone calls, and visits from people who just wanted to talk about their struggles. Who couldn't believe that I'd talk openly - in church, for crying out loud, or on Facebook - about my constant fight. One woman was having such issues with anxiety that going to church was hard for her. Her husband didn't understand at all, and she was so worried that she was the only one suffering. She cried on the phone as we talked about it because she was so relieved that someone understood.

You guys. It is sad and heartbreaking that people don't feel safe discussing this issue. That we are considered weak. Trust me, we're not. As often as I've complained that I *feel* weak, I'm smart enough to know that because I'm still here, still fighting, and still attempting to be the best mom I can be, that I'm NOT weak.

And hey, dr. laura? I am so very, very angry at you for convincing my mother that my illness is made-up by big pharma to sell more drugs. Thanks for that. Means a lot. (Nope, not capitalizing your name.)

Text Games

When one of my daughters went off to college, we started playing a text game. I texted her a line of lyrics to a song, and she'd text me back another line of lyrics using one of the words in my text.

It was a fun game. We had over 200 texts just in music lyrics. And if we got stuck, people around us were always happy to play, too.

Music is this thing we have in our house. A single word will often cause one or more of us to break into random song before continuing the interrupted conversation.

I loved this game. It kept us connected over the long distance.

--
This particular child of mine speaks the love language of "Time Spent." None of us knew this until her senior year in college, but she knew she needed time. So while I was existing through post-partum depression, she would come home from wherever she was and insist on my attention to braid her hair. and once she had my attention for that, she'd sit on the step and talk about her day.

Midnight conversations. We've had them for years, from Jr. High until now. To this day she'll call around 11:30pm or later, needing her late night conversation.  It's no longer every day. Sometimes it's not even every week. But it is a connection that *she* started years ago, when she refused to let me fade into the background of non-life when I didn't know how to cope.
--

Today she messaged me and let me know that her roommate is now playing the lyric game with a relative.

I grinned, but was also sad. I joked back that we were trend-setters.

However -- We haven't played the lyric game since April First.

In fact, after my suicide attempt, she wouldn't even speak to me for three weeks.

This is the child who called Rob that night and told him where to go looking for me after she'd calmed down enough to think. This is the child who patiently and not-so-patiently tried to pull me out of bed on bad days.

This is the child who said, "Mom! You were supposed to go get a tattoo! Not try to end everything! You were supposed to call me and we would go get your butterfly!"

So today, while grinning at the fact that we started a fad, I cried a little. She doesn't like to remember why we stopped in the first place. In fact, I think this is the first time she's willingly talked about the text game since April.

There are consequences you cannot control when you make a choice. I made a choice, and broke part of my connection to a child. It may never fully repair.

As this is one of the more visible/tangible connections I have with my children, I am also aware of the broken connections that are not so easy for me to feel/see. Connections I have to make an conscious effort to find and work on.

Mental Illness affects everyone, not just the one with who has it. I am fairly sure that my children and husband must have a much harder time going through life than I do, now that my brain chemistry has decided to play mad scientist.

Grouse Grouse Grump Grump Grump

Swept, mopped, scrubbed the counters, table, and dish drain and started laundry. Yay limited work clothes.

Having one of those inexplicable grumpy days, and I feel surrounded by junk. So I cleaned. Maybe now I will be able to think clearly. Need to do my 15 minute ink sketch/doodle/whatever. -- after 15 mins, I can't seem to figure out what I'm looking at anymore, but daily drawing is good for me.

I'm procrastinating opening my sketchbook. And my writing program. And taking a sleep aid so I can get up for work. People who invented morning work are evil evil evil. Just sayin'. I should probably eat something, too.

I think I deserve some chocolate, but protein and vegetables would be much better for my body. But that would require cooking and I just cleaned. >:( My kids are fed, though, so at least I've done right by them foodwise.

I wish I had a chef. Or someone who would remember to put things in the crockpot for me. Or remind me to put things in the crockpot when I wake up. Or have freezer meals prepped for me so I can just pop them in the oven. Because lazy. I should join one of those groups that do them once a month so I have them, because I guarantee I won't do it on my own.

I hate cooking. HATE it. I *can* cook, I can follow a recipe, and I can make my own chicken noodle soup, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.
I wish I lived closer to my cousin who sells all kinds of fun food.

With Rob being gone from 12:30-10:30pm, he's not here to whip up food, either.

I need to just step up and do the stupid food thing. And what's really ridiculous is that I'd rather sit here and whine about it than do something. /slap

I apologize for the whine, whine, whine. Sort of. Kind of. You know what, if you don't want to read whine whine whine, just don't read this. Because that's how I'm feeling today. The feels are so freaking random, and I hate that I can't control them. Brain jail. Trapped in my stupid head. AAARGH.

Chris. Hymn 135. Go read it again. Although some days the peace doesn't come as soon as I wish it would. Some days this struggle just SUCKS.

At least I haven't yelled at the kids over it. So I have managed some self control.

Stability is a Precious Thing

It's nice to feel stable. Ok, in my case, the word "Nice" is such an understatement. It's peaceful, calming, and rational.

The anger is gone. My ability to reason, cope, and just enjoy - even though there is a storm of life going on around me - is back.

Some pretty major crap hit the fan on Monday, and it's made life here extra stressful. This is one of those things that we didn't see coming, and BAM!. Hubster and I spent Monday panicking, making phone calls, emailing, and crying in frustration.

Yesterday (Tuesday) I went to work, smiled at people, and was happily distracted by cleaning up my area of the store. Somehow the knowledge that the world wasn't really ending was helpful. Life goes on, even though it feels like my little world is undergoing an earthquake.

Today I can acknowledge that I cannot change what happened. I can only move forward and try prevent things from happening again, and do what I can to help fix the problem.

This is typically how I handle a problem. First: panic/react. Second: distract myself for a bit so I can calm down. Third: deal with it as best I can.

Now, my coping strategy is probably not the best. However, I'm extremely glad that this problem hit when my meds were stabilizing in my system again. Because I *can* feel the calm. I can feel the peace.

I can feel grateful that I have a home that provides shelter. I can be grateful that we have food, clothes, and plenty of wants in addition to our necessities.

Life is what it is. No one ever said it would be easy. Complain as I might, today I am grateful that I do not walk this path alone. I'm grateful for the ability to feel the support and the love.

Being stable meant that I could take my daughter to the local Barnes & Noble to meet her favorite author. We walked all the way there, we stood in line and looked at all the books on the shelves, wishing we had a million dollars and could buy all the books that looked interesting. And all the awesome picture books just because.

Being stable meant that I didn't need to take a xanex to be in line with all those people, with the little boy in front of me who kept making the same high pitched noise over and over and over and over again. When it finally started irritating me enough, the line started moving and he got distracted. end of noise. :)

And being stable meant that I was there to see my daughter meet her favorite author, tell him about how she loved his books so much that she went to his website, saw his tour schedule and put it on the calendar a month ahead of time. She told him about doing extra chores to earn money so she could buy her own copies of the books just to get his signature in them. He in turn asked her questions about her name, about what she liked about the books, and made her feel important.

Tyler Whitesides, folks. Author of The Janitors series. He's fabulous.

The entire walk home, my daughter skipped and exclaimed how happy she was. And me being stable meant I could enjoy it. I didn't resent having to leave the house. I didn't shake and freak out because of the people. I was able to look at the clouds see the images there and enjoy the time spent with my daughter.

It doesn't mean I'm not stressed or worried. But it does mean that I can be calm, not angry, and willing to listen.

I keep my negative posts because it shows the stark differences between my ups and downs. Between the anger that I can't keep under control and the opposing calm and happy that I feel otherwise.

Today I'm grateful for medication that works for me. I know very well that it doesn't work for everyone, but I'm so glad that my meds are working for me. I'm so glad I have the means to buy them. And I'm so grateful that - even though I have pain in my feet afterwards - I have legs that work so I can walk to/from work and other stores within a two-mile area from my house.

I'm just grateful. I'm grateful I can sleep because the worry is under control. I'm grateful for my friends and all my family who tolerate my mood swings. I'm grateful for my church's general conference and the reminders it gives that Christ knows and understands what I'm going through, so he can better help succor me in my time of need. And while sometimes I don't feel it, I think those times are when He's there the most.

I think I'm going to take this lovely calm feeling and go to bed. And sleep for longer than three hours.

Religion, Rebellion and Anger

I am a deeply religious person. I have quite a few friends who feel that it's an outdated superstition, an organized political 'lead the unthinking sheep to follow whatever I say' kind of thing, or just a horrible idea altogether. And that's okay. Whatever works for them and brings them peace is awesome. My faith and my religion work for me. Today, for some strange, stupid reason I feel like talking about it.

This is seriously one of my most tender, vulnerable spots, and I have no idea WHY I am talking about it here. A place the entire world can see it, mock it, ridicule it, or whatever. But here it is nonetheless. Call it a crazy chemical bi-polar compulsion? I don't know how else to understand why I am sitting here typing this up on Blogger.

I don't normally talk about this kind of thing, but today... Today I've been two days without my medication. I forgot to fill it Wednesday before my insurance stopped. And I forgot to fill it Friday, the day I ran out, then Saturday because I was distracted by walking home in the rain, and then Sunday - well, today I didn't forget, it was just Sunday and my pharmacy is closed. I refuse to go to Walgreens; they always screw up, they're rude, and I much prefer my pharmacy where they know me by name, are friendly, go to bat for my kids when there are insurance screw-ups, and they take the time to treat me like a human.

... I digress.

I'm super distractable today.

Anyway.

Because it's been two days without my anti-depressant, today was a bad day. A sobby, unstable, doggy-paddle like mad to keep my head above water day. A day that I couldn't wake up fully in between very vivid nightmares until I HAD to go to work. And even then I was/am dizzy and distracted and... well... attempting very hard via Xanex and mood stabilizer to appear normal to the world.

Again, ANYWAY...

On the way to work, I had a conversation with God. I don't know if I was feeling guilty? I don't know a lot of things today, but I know this:

I know He loves me. I know he understands and knows what I am going through. I know that He hasn't forgotten me. I know He has a hand in everything going on in my life, putting people in place to support me when I can't deal on my own, cheering me on when I succeed, and loving me anyway when I am rebellious.

And oh am I rebellious some days.

And I am angry.  So angry that on some days - like today -  I want to turn in my temple recommend and scream and rail and say I HATE YOU!!! I HATE THIS! MAKE IT STOP ALREADY!

I do not like being mentally ill. I do not like not being in control of my emotions. I do not like that I have to take a xanex to handle little kids screaming in the store.

I am angry that I have to remind myself to breathe over one simple little mistake - regardless of what it is. Forgetting to sign a permission slip. Forgetting to have my son read. Not seeing a customer at the fitting room in time for me to count their clothes on their way out.  (It's an anti-theft policy and I am far from perfect some days)

I'm especially angry right now that He didn't let me come home in April.

the Semi-Colon

I sent someone a sketch of my current semi-colon tat idea. She mentioned that someone she knew was going to get one 'because they're cool,' which offended her. It kind of offends me, too, to be honest.

Sure it's showing support for mental illness. However, "Because it's cool" doesn't sound like understanding the whole reason behind the semi-colon. It feels like the bandwagon is taking something deeply personal and making it a commonplace cliche.

But I'm old and practicallyyelling "GET OFF MY LAWN" to all the young folk.

Besides, just because it means something to me, doesn't mean that someone else can't love the look and want one. It **really** shouldn't bother me how other people treat symbols. It's a punctuation mark, for crying out loud.

Maybe it's because April is not so far in the past, and that experience is still somewhat fresh? Maybe because I want people to understand. I want them to realize the importance and the very real struggle that depression, et al, present to those of us who struggle with it.

A semi-colon to me, right now, says "You're not done yet. You're not done yet. Keep going, you're still writing your sentence." I look at it, and it changes the "I can't do this anymore. I'm done. I just can't." to "Keep going; one more step; one more day; one more line in your book of life."

It's one of my many life-lines on the inevitable down days.

mania?

I'm a teensy tiny little bit worried that I might be going into a manic phase? I have all this crazy energy, and I've had it since noon. I'm not even tired. so... probably a sleeping pill is in order for tonight. (this morning? it's really 2 a.m.??? no way. It feels like 10pm.) But, um, if I start spouting all these ideas for projects I'm going to do and then forget them for another one, that would be a yes, yes in fact I am in a manic phase.

I'm telling you the warning signs now because I don't see them until after the fact. so, you know, I might need someone else to say, "Hey, call your doc."

While my mild manic's are great for interacting with people at work -- ooh, and housecleaning! -- it's probably not a great sign for how my meds are working. It's also a sign that a super bad low is on the way.

So I'm deciding that the happy energy is simply that. Happy energy! FEEL THE LOVE EVERYONE!! I am sending it out to everyone!! I hope my cousins in France and Germany can feel it! smile emoticon

My Affair With Apostraphes and Commas

Why do I write?

I write because I dream in vivid colors, swimming in the new, the odd, and the real. I write because I can feel and see things through my artist eyes that cannot be expressed in any other way than the power of feelings conveyed by words.

There is an essential part of me that longs for communication and understanding on a deep level. I want to be understood. I want to share my hopes, my visions of the beauty, the strange, and the twistedly weird.

Before my mental illness, I wrote for entertainment and for the experience of living in another world, time, and space for a few hours at a time. I wrote because I loved reading it over and over, caught up in stories and ideas that compelled and pulled at me, begging to be set down.

Now I write to purge the thoughts that plague me. The thoughts come in endless streams, disjointed yet related. I write in long run-on sentences, using too many commas because it's where I stop to breathe, but not where the thought ends. I write in incomplete sentences. Because impact.

I write because I enjoy finding connections and seeing where they lead, so the words 'and', 'but' and 'therefore' find their way into my typing more often than they should.

As I type there is a freedom, an escape from the cage that is now my head. Feelings escape and there is a lightness, a movement that I cannot find in the daily activities that I now have to force myself to do.

There is much lost in the translation from mind to fingers. My pinky is in love with that apostraphe and will possessify or contract anything that ends in S unless I enforce extreme discipline or go back and proof read. Not once, not twice, but sometimes ten times over. Its turns to it's whether I want it to or not. That finger demands to be used. That finger has a mind of it's own and I lack in catching all the errors.

But it is sometimes the errors that make writing what it is. Error is as much a part of me as is the blood flowing through my veins. It may not stain the page rust colored when 'there' comes out instead of 'their' or 'they're' - even though I *do* know the difference.  But the flaw is stil there, innate, beautiful in its own way. Annoying in its constancy.

Unfinished thoughts and words leak in as well. Words that have no meaning. The word Bear appears on the screen when I meant Table because the logic and intellect that once managed such things is damaged.

I write because imperfections must come out, whether in poetry or discourse. Thoughts rot and canker, spoiling everything around them when left to simmer in a rage unexpressed.

Words are cathartic, powerful emotions that I cannot deal with when bouncing inside my head from ear to ear, thought to thought, playing on the tides of my chemical imbalances like dolphins on the wake of a speedboat. Words keep me awake at night until I let them out.

I write because I want to be heard.


Thank you, Chuck Wendig, for this week's writing prompt. :)

Where I'm At

Regression is hard. I know it's part of life, but it's a sucky part.

Let me start with the good things.

* I get to go play D&D with my guy friends on Saturdays. We laugh, we're silly, it's a good time. They don't care if I don't remember the rules. A couple understand my struggles completely. It's relaxing and recharging.

* Sunday evenings I go play games with another set of friends. We laugh, we're silly, and a good time is had by all.

* I have a lot of friends and family who are very supportive, whether I'm in a good place or a bad place.

* I have a great doctor who keeps tabs on me when I'm not doing great. He's supportive of my alternative supplements as well as being willing to tweak my meds as needed. He introduced me to goodrx.com, a great place to get coupons and less expensive prescriptions when you don't have insurance. "I don't get any kickbacks from this. Another patient of mine showed me this site, and I've been sharing it with patients ever since."  I love my psychiatrist.

* My husband is currently home all the time, and frankly that's a good thing currently. I'm not all that sure that I should be left alone right now.

--

And here are my stressors:

* My birthday happened. It was extremely extremely bad this year. I think mostly because I don't want another year like last year, but regardless, it sent me into this tailspin that I haven't been able to pull myself out of.

* My husband is out of work, and I'm a little worried about our ability to continue paying rent.

* Both of my favorite family reunions are at the exact same time this year. Not only that, but as much as I want to go, I don't think that I can handle being around all those people.  -- And my husband's immediate family reunion isn't nearly as many people as my extended family reunion. It makes me feel weak and stupid to dread the idea of going. Even though everyone is very loving, supportive, sweet, and caring. I just... don't feel like I can.  And this makes me extra sad because I LOVE Bear Lake.

* My doctor changed my meds last week. I'm now on 300mg of Effexor a day. I have had really great results with this medicine, but every change in the dosage makes me sick. If I don't eat when I take my meds, I feel like I have the flu. The rest of the time, I just feel icky, nauseated, or dizzy. Sometimes I'm okay, but mostly I feel sick. And being sick makes me grumpy.

* I am tired ALL the time. I get up around 11 a.m. after 9 hours of sleep and try to do something with my kids or be productive. After about an hour, I cannot keep my eyes open and end up falling asleep wherever I'm at and have to put myself to bed for another couple of hours.

* My motivation and energy levels are GONE. There is an entire list of things around the house that I want to do. Really want to do, honest. But I just can't drum up the energy or care enough to do them.
  - i.e. fold and put away my laundry. I'd kind of like to be able to vacuum that part of my room. Not only that, but when my room is clean, I feel like I can breathe better.
  - mop my upstairs floors. I just want my house to smell clean.
  - dust. Usually I love to dust, and it's not a hard thing for me to do. Now I look at my game chest, my piano and all the other shelves and think, "I want to dust that." And I can't summon the energy to go get a rag and do it.

* My right wrist and thumb are sprained. I was in a great creative space before I sprained them, and now I'm extremely discouraged that it hurts to move a pencil around. Well, it hurts to do quite a few things I'm used to doing with my right hand, but not being able to draw SUCKS.

* I went to the temple to go to my cousin's wedding a couple weeks ago and had a massive, I'm talking MASSIVE panic attack. I had to do breathing exercises, some kind of tapping/relaxation thing, and pop a xanex.  I had to leave the wedding breakfast early because the anxiety was still bad.  Going to the temple is supposed to be relaxing, recharging, and comforting. Instead, it made me want to go home. home home. Badly.

--

Here are the things that my doctor and other friends have suggested or 'prescribed' to help:

* exercise daily.
* Fish Oil and B vitamin supplements
* Iodine supplements
* Every day get up, get dressed, do my hair and make-up, and look like I'm ready to go out and face the world.


I would like to note that these things listed are not 'shoulds.'  These aren't things that are like another list of things to feel guilty about.  These are things that if I do them, I really do feel better. They are, my case, needs.

Except sometimes I can't make myself exercise. I have no energy. Or I'm too sick. And that just is how it  is. No guilt, just a thing on my list to do when I *can* do it.

The vitamins and other supplements are also things I take when I can keep them down.

The getting dressed and doing my hair is easier. With my new haircut, I *Have* to do it daily or it looks really crazy. Some eyeliner and some earrings, done. This one I can do just because I prefer to like what I see when I look in a mirror.

Sitting outside, whether in the front during a rainstorm or out back to cuddle with the dogs. I see all the yardwork I should be doing, but it is healthy for me to feel the sun on my skin, the grass between my toes, and the strength of the trees.

--

On a religious/spiritual front, I am doing:

* Church on Sundays. I can get through sacrament meeting now with no problems as long as I'm sitting in the back. Of course, with the revival of my anxiety it's not as easy as it was before June 18, but I can at least make it through the first two meetings without stress. The third meeting is harder.

* I play the scriptures out loud when I'm going to bed. For those of you who fall asleep immediately, that probably makes no sense. But when you're me and it takes an hour or so to fall asleep, I actually hear at least three or four chapters before I fade out.

* Prayer. A lot of it. I still feel weak. I know I'm not alone, but oh my goodness do I feel weak.

--

Truthfully, it is extremely to want to keep going right now. I feel like I'm slogging through mud.

It's wonderful when my son comes and jumps up on me and cuddles. I kiss his face and neck, he giggles, then runs off to build or play toys. He sings and keeps up constant conversation as he bounces from thing to thing around the house before jumping back up on me and getting more kisses and hugs.

Now, all this being said, I don't have a plan. So while part of me might want to jump off that cliff, I can't. I won't. It's just... hard right now. It's hard to want to keep fighting.

It's hard to wake up and face another day of no energy and sick and not be able to go visit friends or go for a decent walk around my neighborhood.

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.

Motherhood and Depression

Motherhood comes in different stages that start the moment you first find out you're expecting. (Or adopting; I don't believe there's a difference.)

Uplifting FB Posts Sometimes Piss Me Off

On days like today I shouldn't look at my Facebook newsfeed.

Yes, my meds are working. Yes, I still have down days; it's the nature of my illness. Some days my filters work better than others. Today my filters aren't so great, and everything seems to hit like a baseball bat.

You know those uplifting posts that people share about how they have enough faith and know that God can and will cure everything? Those pretty pictures with the quotes about how you should choose what kind of day you're going to have and then have it? Those f-ing reminders to live better, keep trying, don't give up, and have faith because it's all going to be miraculously better if you just will it to be.

I think it's awesome that people find comfort in those words. That they feel uplifted and gifted and that they can conquer the world. It's great for them, it truly is.

Today, those posts just filled me with guilt and the sense that I was being judged. I feel defensive and perhaps a bit petulant and severely irritated.

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.

Humbling

I saw my psychiatrist today. I spent a good part of the session answering questions like, "Define 'not functioning'" "Are you still having suicidal thoughts?" "Explain how you don't fit" "How's your anxiety?"

Obviously there were a lot more questions like that. And quite a lot of waaaah, poor me in there. He listened, he took notes, his voice was moderate and kind. And then he asked, "What can I do to help you?"

I shrugged and said, "I don't know if you can."

It was obvious that he then made up his mind. He began typing in his computer and said, "Ok, we are going to switch your medications. Hopefully we can reconnect you to your creativity again. But--" And here he turned and looked at me, quite seriously.  "You made an extremely poor choice that would have long lasting incredibly negative effects on your children, your family and friends. You need to find more effective coping skills to deal with frustration and stress. You NEED to get back into therapy. Find a way. You're extremely determined when you want to be, so you can make this happen. It needs to happen for your thought process to get back into alignment so you can see the difference between your choices."

Sometimes I need to be smacked upside the head with a wallop of reality. I had prayed and prayed that my doctor would be helped to know how to help me, and I needed to hear that.

And now, hours later, now I feel the shame. The "what in the world was I thinking???" has kicked in. The realization that my sweet, sweet children would have been traumatized and hurt - Would have been? no, HAVE been - putting it mildly. Scarred forever. What kind of mother does that to a child?

Well, obviously this mother. This mother who is struggling to control her thoughts, her feelings, and everything. I guess I just have to come to terms with the fact that I am not the one in control here. I have to have a little more faith than I have had.

It's extremely embarrassing and humiliating to see how wrong I was. At the time it felt like the only right decision. Tonight I don't even want to admit that it happened, but the whole world knows.

Guilt can be unhealthy, but it can also be a spur to be better, to make something right. I don't know how to make right the fact that I scared everyone - that I gave up. I can only hope that by continuing to try to be better, by still being here, those who I hurt can eventually decide to forgive me. Maybe I can learn to forgive myself for being weak.

The consequences are very real. One of my children won't look at or talk to me. Another is afraid to go to school because she's worried I won't be here when she gets back. Another cries over everything and holds on so tight when she hugs me, willing me to still be her rock. And yet another is angry and doesn't understand why I'd do that to her.

Oh, there are probably more consequences that I'm not aware of or that haven't cropped up yet. Some that are less obvious than the blisters, the sore legs and muscles. More than the emotional pain I've caused everyone around me.

I won't say I don't deserve this. Of course I deserve it. I may get to make a choice, but I don't get to pick the end result.

I will say that I will attempt to make things right. I know I'm limited in what I can do and what I can give, but I will do what I can. I have to struggle with down days and I may not be able to do everything, but I CAN, for crying out loud, be here.

To be or not to be

Yesterday I hit my limit. I was done. -- well, to be honest, I still feel done, and am extremely angry that I'm still here.

I sent three texts. One to my daughter in Cedar City, one to my other daughter in Logan, and one to a friend of mine who never reads his texts. Just told them I loved them and that I was leaving. I didn't tell anyone else because I knew they'd stop me.

I left. I left the house, I left my phone, I left my kids, I left my purse. I left everything and started walking.

The clouds looked like wings, taunting me to fly away. As the sun set, they changed into a dragon, beckoning me forward. Pulling me.

I walked all the way to Antelope Island, wanting to go for a late night swim in the lake. That was my plan. None of the kids would find mom and have that memory. I could lay there and float and freeze.

Except I couldn't.

One of the biggest lakes on the planet, and I was walking through the dried up lake bed toward the island, and so help me, there was no lake. I could find mud, but no water.

So I cried and railed at God and hiked back to the road. By that time, I could feel how far I'd walked. I know people run that far or more, but I'm not one of the runners. I could feel it in my hips, every leg muscle, and especially my feet. Oh my feet hurt. But I plodded along on the road.

At one time I curled up on the side of the road just wanting to sleep. The gate was so far away. Probably a couple of miles. But I got up and pushed myself to get there. I mean, I had failed at leaving, I had failed at fighting my inner battles, I may as well go home and accept that life is what it is. And the temperature was dropping, the wind was blowing, and I could feel the cold seeping into my bones. Maybe I wouldn't make it home after all?

Cars passed. The moon was large and bright, so visibility was not a problem. More cars passed. I plodded along because an object in motion tends to stay in motion. Then a truck stopped.

"Are you ok?"

I could barely answer him. I didn't want to answer him, but I knew he was there for me. And yet I struggled to let him help me. His wife came over and they talked me into getting in the truck, then turned around and drove me to the gate. It was not a fast drive.

The guy insisted on calling my husband, and there I was, waiting for the ride home. I expected my husband to be so angry with me that he'd refuse to come get me. But no. He came, and he hugged me so hard.

Perhaps today isn't the day to be writing this. There isn't a happy ending yet. Everyone is glad I'm home and that I'm safe. I still find myself staring at the walls and wondering why I'm here.

My aunt says it's because my kids need me and I'm the only one who understands them. Some of the other comments I've seen or been sent have said it's because I'm loved and wanted. And it's true. I have a lot of friends who love me and like having me around.

Right now that all feels like obligations and it feels too hard.

Is my medication not working? Is that why I feel trapped in my head, trapped in my life, trapped in this body with no working talents?

I don't know. I really don't know. I know that I am so frustrated with everything, I'd rather burn in hell than live like this forever. Screaming kids, husband who doesn't understand -who tries, but just doesn't- a house I can't keep clean, and other obligations.

It's all too much. It's still all too much. Of course, I don't have a plan anymore. I don't have anywhere to go now where no one would think to look for me. And the only other options I can think of would hurt or traumatize someone else.

Yeah, hypocritical, I know, when my leaving and not being found traumatized my whole family and community of friends.

I made the choice. One must pay for one's choices. Part of my consequence is the extreme pain I have from the waist down. My feet are bruised, my toes are numb, and I can barely walk now without crying. I have several friends who are furious with me. Rightly so, and I expected that. I know I have family who will never understand.

I don't expect anyone to condone my actions. I made a choice. At this moment in time I don't regret it. I probably will another day.

This struggle is so hard. I'm so tired of fighting my emotions, of fighting the dark cloud, of trying to find the humor in every situation. I'm exhausted. Yet I'm still being pulled in every direction. Fix this, do that, "moooom, she looked at me."

yeah, this is all one -waaah, pity poor me- post. I should just suck it up and deal. But maybe, just maybe someone else will understand this blackness. Someone else will see this and say, "Yeah, me too. Hang in there, because yeah, it's hard."