Now I see...ish

So there is a reason why there has been so much space in between my writings... ok there are a few reasons. 
One: I am a perfectionist.  If I don't love it, I don't post it.
Two: I have yet another journey I've started and I wanted to let time pass before I jumped in and explained.
Three: I was doubting whether or not writing often about my pain was healthy or not.  To all of this I say, "Here goes nothing!  ...or well, something.  Ok, a lot."

So.  I will begin with this.  I am very very sensitive to anything remotely resembling life or reality right now.  I'll be lucky to make it through the next few years of my life without losing limbs or friends or hair (aka Brittany Spears... yes, I want to shave my head).
That may sound extreme to you (or probably the entire world who isn't ____) but I don't care.
What journey do I speak of that is point three?
I speak of the journey, oh goodness, __________ .... of being bipolar.  Yep... good times. 

I've been going to therapy since the end of January and my therapist told me after enough times of hearing my cycles of self loathing, pain, overwhelming joy, anxiety and even dangerous self-rewarding or self-damaging actions... to name a few, that I should see a doctor who she works with who specializes in helping people who are... well, psycho.  He is a specialist who studies the brain waves of humans when they go through or experience distress, whatever the cause.

Awesome.  I have now been labeled.  Even going to see a psychotherapist scared the be-Hay-Seus out of me but then to be in the same room as other people who struggle with "mental illness" made me spin into the most self-hating and traumatizing day, then few weeks, I have experienced in a long time.  I am sure it didn't help that when I was in the waiting room I was surrounded by the angriest "Words with Friends"-playing kid, the creepiest looking druggie-cougar and the most annoying, loud I'm-43-stuck-in-the-80's-and-wear-my-tube-tops-still chick who was on her cell phone talking about how she is about to go get her son from jail and get him his license back if it's the last thing she does after she drops off the dog and the divorce papers to her "fat ass" ex.  I wish I was joking.
Just from reading this paragraph you may either be laughing to yourself at how I described them or maybe you are thinking how sad they are... perhaps you think I am judging them. 
Let me make it clear.  I am not judging them. 
Instead, I began placing their issues, their problems, their futures, their mistakes, their pains, their addictions and their poor choices upon myself.  I not only began to think I was just as bad or worse than all of them, but my brain began to cycle and cycle and cycle and AGAIN TO CYCLE into fears of my own future, my kids future, my outfits when I turn 43 and if I'll ever get better... whatever that means.  These thoughts and feelings were not new, only reaffirmed and set ablaze.
Now this is not your fleeting "Woah, that was a weird thought.  I'll be fine somehow because of a ___ b ___ or c ___." 
No, I am talking right before I was walking into that room I was nervous but had just listened to a good song and eaten chocolate, was semi-excited and hopeful about this next step in the right direction for my healing and the minute I heard the cries for help around me I began to not only weep for them, but I began to weep for myself and worse, I began to fantasize about how to end my drama once and for all.  All from just feeling sad for others and sad for myself.  And that ladies and gentleman, is partially from my new friend I have decided to call "bipolar."  I'll go into "partially" later.  
  
I don't want to get ahead of myself here.  I don't want to move on from the fact that I just said I felt like ending the drama, the pain.  Don't think I am not very aware of the weight of those words.  I don't use it lightly and I won't ever allow anything to let me get close to not reaching out in the times where I do feel overwhelmed.  Hence this blog that reminds me a bit of those dreams where you're naked and no one will lend you clothes.  Ugh, I loathe those dreams.  

My life is worth more than giving up.  I know that.  I will always follow that rule.  But it doesn't mean I don't have the bipolar shoving the idea to just "give up" whether it be mentally or emotionally, morally or literally day in, day out, with a nearly auditory drumming that won't stop no matter how much or how I pray, meditate, drink, abstain, read, couch potato it, exercise, listen to Reggae, "Tool" or Debussy, diet, overeat, socialize, give, have "me time," let my feelings out, focus on the positive, blog, rehash the negative, bake, spend, save etc...  You know, the "fix all" list.  

As I waited for the doctor to come into my room, yes I was finally away from everyone, or so I thought as the angry W.W.F. guy was in the room next to me and kept getting the "brringgg" of the moves his opponents were making, I began to feel like I was burning up.  The fears, the self-loathing, the perfectionism, the guilt, the stupidity and the world were screaming, SCREAMING, I MEAN THEY WERE SCREEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMING "You see!?  You've reached your destination- the mental case lab!  You aren't anything but a whore, a loser, an emotional freak, you're stupid, you're unmotivated, you need medicine to even function, your past will always follow you, you can't do anything right, everyone is annoyed by you, you will ruin your kids, you won't be a good enough wife, you will die young, you are unloved, you're crazy, you're crazy, you're crazy, you're..." and the doctor walked in.

I smiled my best smile.  He smiled back.  He opened his mouth and said, "Well Grace, you got a 100% on your test for Bipolar II.  What does that mean to you?"  I think I blinked twice with large eyes, one eye twitched slightly and then I began to tell this mild-mannered, kind South African man a story he's never heard before... or so I thought.  I was sure I was a special case.  This wasn't bipolar.  I just wasn't good enough, I didn't try hard enough, I was hurt too many times, I am simply an unmotivated and unable, unworthy fuck-up, I tried everything and most of all I explained that he just was unable to help me, nor did I deserve the help anyway.

I mentioned earlier that I'd talk about "partially."  Bipolar is partially to blame.  The most frustrating thing I think I can say I struggle with is the question "What came first, the chicken or the egg?"  No, I am not interested in a banter about Creationism vs. Evolution I am talking about the daily-minute-by-minute agonizing question of "what can I do to kill this pain and what's the main enemy I need to combat?" 

So what is it?  Some say it's negativity.  Some, the devil.  Some say it is only bipolar.  Others say I have been yelled at one-too-many times. Others say I need to scream at a therapist pretending he is my rapist, the multiple molesters, the 3 men who kidnapped me and my friend who I never saw again and even the kid who pushed me down the stairs and had his friend throw me and my new folder into the trash can once I reached the bottom.  Others say I need to forgive and never think of these things again.  Others say if I just attend church x amount of times and read this new, hip pastor's book I'll feel alive.  Some say I need to figure it out through a 12 step program or multiple programs.  The list goes on.

NEWS FLASH:  It's not helping!!!  What "works" for you isn't working for me.  Get it?  Trying to pinpoint and then find the one thing or period of time or event to blame is doing nothing but exhaust me, my brain and my will to live or care about the world.  The worst part about being ...ugh...having bipolar is that I will think "a" will work because at the time, it does!  I feel successful.  I feel like I am finally free of my codependency and my love addiction, free of my anger, free of my self-hatred, free of my bi-weekly nightmares, free of my lack of motivation to the point of not caring because I already screwed up my day (at all of 8 am). But after one mistake, one bad thought that won't go away, I begin the journey down the waterfall and into the bay, getting repeatedly pushed against the rocks and barely making it up to breathe. 

I may eventually blog about my most recent battle of "Woo hoo!  I found the cure!  Woo hoo, yay OH SHIT THAT'S A BRICK WALL... oh God my head."  That lasted about a year, it includes a 12 step, a lot of volunteering and some manipulative women.  Ooh, intriguing. ;) 
Ok, so I'll try drugs (prescription, that is).  I don't want to.  I am, needless to say, more than apprehensive about putting chemicals in my body and expecting positive results.  Yet I have to put my trust in this kind, gentle, James Harriet-type man who I believe is the next tour guide leading me to what is eventually my eternal rest.  But I plan on that "final destination" being a long way away.  Maybe the green pastures and still waters are real, I choose to believe they are.  But I don't always feel convinced, especially when I unexpectedly, unwillingly daydream about jumping from a Westlake cliff with an anchor around my feet with the evil people in my life's names engraved on the bottom in the middle of giving someone their chocolate croissant at work seconds after having a conversation about how grateful I am to have a new car, my beautiful kids. There's an additional guilt salesman- trying to be happy and grateful because you know you should be. 

I've been on meds for 1 1/2 weeks... hard to tell yet if it's helping.  It seems to be a little.  I am taking my high expectation level on a vacation to "Here's a glass of shut-the-hell-up. Drink it, and like it!" land.  I am not saying I am not going to try and do all of the other things I know will apparently help, but I will not rely on any one thing, anyone.  I will not allow what my doctor said, "So your thoughts race day and night and with that past and those events, wow.  How have you survived?" make me ask, "Yes, why am I trying to survive if I shouldn't have?" but instead I will say, "Why am I still enduring and what can I learn?"  This may sound somewhat inspiring but all it is is scary and another expectation for me to meet.  So I will try and make it easy on myself and just try and be genuine, honest and calm...calmer.        

Well that's great, you likely think.  Grace is depressed, she's bipolar, she's got IIIIIIISSUES and she has no answer.  But that is where you are wrong. THIS is my journey.  This is my life.  God has given me one time, one place, one mind, one fucked up past, one pair of lungs and I plan to try and try and try and try and try and yes, try until my fingertips bleed from pulling myself up the concrete wall that is my bipolar... I mean my past, I mean....my present, I mean... I don't know.