Grieving Over Your Bipolar Diagnosis - Part One

When I type the word 'GRIEF', what loss do you think of that would cause you to grieve? Did you think it was the death of a loved one? Most people do. Today, we are going to discuss a different kind of loss that causes us to grieve. The loss of our mental health.

You are your own loved one. You were forced to confront a life you didn't ask for and give up the idea of what you thought life could be. It is the death of what could have been. That, my friends, is something to grieve over. This blog will be a two part series. We are going to first discuss the stages. Then, we will discuss ways to work through the stages in the next blog post.

AN OVERVIEW
There are 5 to 7 stages of grief. The most commonly accepted is by author, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, from her 1969 book, On Death And Dying. It is important to know a few facts about the stages of grief.

1. You may not experience each one, although studies show women normally experience all 5 to 7. 
2. They do not happen in any particular order. 
3. They can happen more than once. Just because you reach the final stage (acceptance) doesn't mean you won't revisit each again at different times in your life. Grieving over the loss of our mental health never goes away. We will be reminded of it, even while living in a relatively balanced state. 
4. Stages can happen simultaneously, and are sometimes closely related to each other, making you slip back and forth between them.

THE STAGES

• Denial - It didn't happen. This is not me. It's not possible. I am numb.
• Anger - Why has my higher power let this happen to me?
• Bargaining - If I do this or that, it will go away or be okay.
• Depression - I can't take it. What is the point? I am worthless.
• Acceptance - It's going to be okay. I can live with this, no matter what.

DENIAL
In 2007, my family doctor, who had been treating me for depression for years, asked me to see a psychiatrist. I am a little hazy on what happened. I just remember not being able to hear anything else once I heard the word bipolar, telling the psychiatrist he was full of it and walking out.

Denial is most commonly the first stage we hit, but it can hit at any time, especially during a manic/hypomanic episode. At diagnosis, we may be shocked and can't believe what we just heard. Impossible is our thought. Certainly, we can't be bipolar!!!

Denial manifests both physically and emotionally. Denial can cause us to bottle our emotions as we deny our diagnosis. Think of a high pressure water hose that has a weak spot (no, bipolar is not weak). Now think of stopping the flow of water and increasing the pressure. That is not healthy for the hose no matter which way you go about it. It can cause confusion, nausea, and physical bodily pain and illnezs. Denial can make treatment difficult. It can make us act out in ways that try to deny the disorder, one of them being anger, a very closely related stage. It can also cause depression, another stage. These all closely work with each other and feed off of each other.

ANGER
My first reaction, besides denial, was to get very angry. How dare he tell me I had bipolar disorder. The only thing I knew about it was a Lifetime movie I watched one time about a pregnant woman that went off of her meds to have a baby. It wasn't a very pretty movie. In my limited knowledge at the time regarding bipolar disorder, the psychiatrist was the one 'crazy'. It didn't last long, but I was really angry.

Fast forward to 2011 and my first time hospitalized. During outpatient group therapy one day, I got angry at the topic. I don't know what the topic was. I went home and suddenly found myself beating wooden cabinet doors over and over. I kept screaming as I beat the crap out those doors (they didn't suffer any consequences). I was suddenly so angry at every single thing that I had to live a life with bipolar. My higher power, my parents, my childhood, my kids, my cat. You name it, I was ANGRY. I beat so hard, that I bent bracelets. I had deep bruises on my wrists and palms for weeks that made it difficult for me to write. I even split a couple of knuckles. I faced the anger stage for years again after after accepting that I had been diagnosed. It lasted for a long time.

Anger works very closely with denial. You are going to get angry and blame everything. Your psychiatrist, your parents, anyone but you. Or maybe you will blame yourself. I have. It is infuriating that you have a disorder for the rest of your life without being given a choice in the matter.

BARGAINING
I find myself in this stage constantly. If I just take my medication, everything will be fine. Then I exacerbate it by refusing to change meds when they need a tweak. I think if I just hold on and try to 'get better' everything will return to 'normal'. I don't call my pyshciatrist until I have already sliiped into a depressive state. I bargain with my illness that if I am patient, everything will be fine.

The most common form of bargaining when grieving over the loss of your mental health will be feeling if you do one certain thing, everything will be okay. This can even be closely related to denial if you think you can control your life and bipolar disorder without any help. This certainly is not the case. Bipolar is a fluid illness. It can't be controlled. It can, however, be successfully managed.

Another form of bargaining will come if you think can self medicate with alcohol. Alcohol is a downer and drinking will negate the effects of your medications.

DEPRESSION
Are we talking depression or a depressive episode? We are discussing both, because depression, which is part of having bipolar, can lead to a depressive state. Part of the grieving process will be facing depression at times specifically about having bipolar. After the initial diagnosis, you may find you spend the most time in this stage. Depression can last any length of time. There are times when I am depressed for just a few hours. It is closely related to anger. Who wants to live with bipolar? I don't. So I get sad and sometimes angry. I feel like I will never have a life I can be satisfied with.

With depression you are going to be asking why you had to be burdened with such an illness. There will be tears. You will lose sleep or you will sleep all the time. Your energy will be low. You will either not eat or overeat. You may feel worthless or like living life with bipolar is too hard, or not worth it. You will experience the typical symptoms of depression, but it will be in relation to your diagnosis. You will wonder how you are going to live life with bipolar. You won't want to, and that is a justified feeling.

Experiencing depression is a part of grief that you cannot avoid. Watch yourself for signs that your depression is becoming serious and turning into an episode. Are you starting to isolate yourself? Does the isolation become so bad that you are cutting your support group from your life and not allowing them to support you? That is an indication of a depressive state instead of experiencing the depression stage. Call your doctor immediately.

ACCEPTANCE
After storming out of the psychiatrist office in 2007, I went home and did the usual when presented with a problem I know nothing about. I googled. I read. I took tests (please know these tests are not reliable, but I didn't know that at the time). It was one of those AHA! moments. I fit everything I read about bipolar disorder to a 'T'. I read up on bipolar disorder at NAMI and NIHM. Use these sites to educate your support groups. The next day I scheduled myself another appointment at my psychiatrist's office, and yes, when I saw him, I apologized. I went through a brief time of denial thinking now that my behavior was named, I could be fine. That was denial also. I didn't realize how much work being 'fine' was always going to take.

With acceptance, you will realize a life with bipolar, is indeed possible. Satisfaction is possible. Happiness is possible! You can manage bipolar despite the ups and downs. This is challenging when going through episodes, but it is still possible. You will feel empowered. You will feel clear. You will find that you can prepare yourself for the battle. You will feel stable.

FINAL THOUGHTS
In our next blog, we will discuss ways you can move through the first four stages. We will discuss ways to stay in the acceptance stage longer and how to possibly maintain this stage through an episode.


To balanced and productive days my friends!

Laura

Final Thoughts - My Journey Through A Mental Health Facility

I am a perfectionist. We will name that problem number one. I decided to blog some final thoughts about Mesa Springs and my stay. I wanted it to be perfect. So, I started to think about what I wanted to blog. Enter the second problem. I over think everything. Just ask my son, Daniel. He tells me I over think things and I tell him I think he may be right, but I have to think it over and then, after thinking about it, I will get back to him to let him know what I think...I think. Anyway, I regress. I've stopped obsessing over what to blog and here are some final thoughts for you.

Mental illness is a beast. Bipolar disorder is a beast. An ugly, rotten, stinking beast that does it's best to chew us up and spit us out. And, there are times it succeeds. Any chronic, possibly terminal illness is a beast. Is mental illness the worst beast to live with? I won't go that far although on bad days I would lead the parade. My nephew, Ricky, is fighting a reoccurrence of cancer and I can't imagine going through what he is going through. They had to drill a hole in his hip! But, mental illness is truly a beast. In my opinion, it is the only illness that tries to cyclically destroy our cognitive, emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical being. It is not a nice beast to live with. As you know, there are many people that live successfully with mental illness though. Right? Well, let me address that for just a moment. I have bipolar disorder. And, even though you read probably the worst I have ever been through (ok, it was definitely the worst) because of a depressive state, I am a success. In fact, I am a huge success. You see, I still breathe. Therefore, I am a success. Are you reading this? You are a success, also. Congratulations. You are enough. Just as you are. Right now. This very moment; you are a warrior, just like me. I don't care what your current state is. You are breathing. You are a success for living with this beast.

Did I have mitigating factors that exacerbated my depressive state? Yes. But that is the nature of the beast. And I would like to address that, also. You will hear the terms 'mental health' and mental illness' thrown around as if they mean the same thing. They don't and whenever possible, I refuse to use the term 'mental health'. Unfortunately, that is where the current mental 'health' system focuses. They ignore those that are seriously ill, and ignore those that aren't so seriously ill, too. They focus on mental health, not mental illness. Unfortunately, the more ill we are, the less attention we receive. It just has to change or all of us are in danger. I fear for my children should they inherit my disorder with the current state of affairs. Anyway, to make my point about the difference between mental health and mental illness. Every human has their own mental health to take care of. None of us have had a perfect life free of strife, mistakes, disappointment, dysfunctional relationships, loss, etc. So, each of us has been molded by the positive and the negative in our lives into what we currently are. That is mental health. People deal with mental health issues every single day from those experiences. That is NOT, however, mental illness. Do you know the story of the princess and the pea? The pea is our mental health. All of those mattresses are mental illness on top of every single positive and negative experience in life. It piles high on your psyche and smothers your mental health. You can't find your mental health. It is not health (or the pea), it is illness (all of those mattresses piled one of top of another hiding that pea), and there is no princess in this story. Mental illness is a disease of the brain. You will see me repeat this over and over. The very organ perfectly designed to help us rationalize, accept, make decisions about, and lead us through an illness is the very organ that is diseased. It conflicts itself. It works against itself. It fools itself. It can't be trusted all the time. Like I said, it is a beast. We know next to nothing about the brain and therefore know very little about mental illness and how to treat it, (never mind cure it!).

So what did I learn from Mesa Springs? Well, first, I have to tell you that it was very difficult for me to transcribe the first week. I cried many tears while doing so. How in the world did I let myself get that low? But, I felt energized by the last 6 days. I saw the broken become much less than broken, and I am even more less broken now by making myself relive it. So, transcribing those last days was, in sorts, a mini boost. I learned that anyone can go from the depths of despair to beginning to accept mental illness. Yes, I have accepted that I have bipolar before. It was time for me to accept it again. I learned that anyone can go from the depths of self hatred to beginning to love oneself. Have I loved myself before? Yes, but it was time to do that again. I learned that if I want to be the kind of person I want to be, I first have to willingly accept the person I am, illness and all. That was a kick in the butt to my perfectionism. It didn't take kindly to it. I learned that I am enough. I have bipolar. I am not ashamed of it. I need help at times. And I am a fighter, so I am going to ask for help when I need it instead of beating my head against a brick wall. If I can do any of this, you can do it too. I watched, as a third person (even though I was transcribing my own words), someone come back to life and succeed.

I have been enrolled in an aftercare intensive group therapy program at Mesa Springs since my release from inpatient and it has been very hard work. I am finished now, but most days I came home mentally exhausted and had to take a nap. So please understand this very important fact. Inpatient stays are for one reason only. To stabilize you to begin working your way back to a balanced state. I read an interesting article the other day that spoke to getting your bipolar disorder IN order. I like that thought. Bipolar is never free of the possibilities of a manic, hypomanic or depressive state. A lot of very regimented, hard work has to go into lengthening the timeframes between episodes. Tons. So, inpatient stays do nothing more than get you ready to jump back up on that horse and try to ride. You just never finally reach the proverbial sunset. You are going to fall back off at one point or another. It doesn't mean when you fall off that you need hospitalization. I did, but I not only fell off the horse, I demanded it stomp all over me and kick dust in my face. You probably don't need hospitalization like I did if you are working hard and sticking to your regimen. You may just need a med tweak. But then again, that is the beast. Bipolar hates meds. Bipolar hates regimen. It fools itself that it doesn't need that. How many cancer patients find out that their tumor is shrinking and decide to stop just because they think their cancer will heal itself without any further treatment? I'm willing to say that if that number exists, it is very low. Ask that about mental illness and your number is too large to count. Even the group therapy that I just finished isn't the 'end'. I now face intensive personal therapy, finding some public support groups out there, deeper dependence on my personal support group for an unseen amount of time, and a regimented sleep, diet, exercise, and medicine schedule (again). All of that and more, like journaling and blogging are what I need to manage my mental illness.

I entered Mesa Springs in a bad state. Today, I am in a much better state. I entered broken and am now much less than broken. I still have a long way to go. I understand depressive and hypomanic states are a part of my future. But, Mesa Springs gave me a selfish idea. It made me realize I want to change this blog. I still want to blog about stigma and needed law changes. However, I am going to focus more on topics that we can address together to take care of ourselves. I know of a blogger with mental illness that blogged how uncomfortable they were with blogging about their struggles. You won't find this here. If I don't stay authentic with you, how can I be authentic with myself? So, I hope you will like the future blogs I have in the works and find them helpful. I will be including how I struggle, too. We'll share tips for managing. We'll delve into topics about why we think the way we do as mentally ill persons and how we can improve. We'll go into topics that are exercises for self care. We'll share with our supporters how to help us help ourselves. And, we will still talk about stigma and needed changes. Even though my main goal is still to touch you, I will be touching and supporting myself at the same time.

I would like to leave you with two songs. The first, "Sober", by Tool, is me going into Mesa Springs. It has one word I want you to change. When you hear the word, 'sober', replace it with 'normal'.  The second song is "Fight Song" by Rachel Platten. That is me today. Stick with me, let's fight together.

To balanced and productive days my friends,

Laura

SOBER, by TOOL

FIGHT SONG, by RACHEL PLATTEN

Day One - My Journey Through A Mental Health Facility

It was Wednesday June 3, and time for my 7:00p appointment with Tonya. She opens with the typical "So how are you?" and each session I normally put a lot of thought as to what I am going to say. I foolishly think I set the tone. I mean, it isn't like she doesn't already know how I am doing! I truly suspect the woman is psychic. And I don't believe in psychics. Last session she asked 'the question' and all I said was, "I'm not." I had thought about what to say but really didn't care what answer to give that week, so I was just kind of flippant. The woman still got me to talk meaningfully for 60 minutes though. June 3, I thought and thought, but hadn't come up with the exact words yet. You see, I had a plan. I knew I had shut down and was beyond help. I had begun to willingly and quite easily lie to the people I love and count as my support group, or I just ignored them. I didn't want them to know. I didn't care anymore. It became none of their business in my mind. Why bother when I was failing so miserably? I haven't ever willingly lied to my support group. Ever. But Tonya was the only one left that I was being honest with (well, except she had no idea I was lying to everyone else, but in my defense, she never asked, so maybe she isn't psychic after all). I knew the choice of words was paramount to my plan. Anyway, I went to the session to slyly try and get her to help me figure out how to get permission from my children to die. Now, I think I am pretty smart, and was convinced I could fool the best therapist I have ever had in my life to get the answer I needed, even though she seems to see right through me with a single glance. Sometimes I won't look at the woman. She reads my mind! I thought I could trick her into slipping up and giving me a way to gain approval from my boys to die. I rationally know suicide is selfish. I know it permanently hurts those left behind. It is a huge reason I fight as a mental illness advocate. However, I had played my last card. I asked my children for permission to die and they said no. And besides, in my head, I wasn't suicidal. I just wanted permission to die.

So we sat down, she looked at me, asked 'the question', and I will be damned if out of my mouth popped the words, "I think I need hospitalization, but I can't afford it." I swear to you my mouth dropped a bit and I thought, "WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY?" Tonya didn't immediately tell me how silly of a reason lack of money was not to admit myself, but thanks to her, I did end up admitting myself to Mesa Springs in Fort Worth, Texas, early afternoon on June 4. I agreed to it midway through the session and went home with a game plan to get things in order within 24 hours so I could go. During my 90 (I got 30 free minutes that night) minute session with Tonya, I kept telling her I wasn't suicidal, but I did have one heck of a fool proof plan I was happy to share and thought pretty highly of myself for thinking of it. Why not share? I wasn't suicidal. She didn't challenge me. Instead, she helped me to admit to myself that my preoccupation with gaining approval to die would eventually become greater than the need of my children's approval. And she isn't as smart as she thinks. I know now she made it seem like my idea, but she led me right to the watering hole. She never once told me, "Yes, you are suicidal." And, even though I just didn't care, I did obviously care enough to not want that preoccupation to become true. That is just how good she is. Or maybe she is the sly one??? Hmmm...

I was inpatient for 13 days. The first night home, June 16, I knew I wanted to blog about this, but had no idea how. How could I explain a journey from void to hope and make sense enough to touch someone else? I read a book that Tonya brought to me while there (told you she is awesome). The author tells the story of feeling inferior about giving a speech in which the other speakers are all CFO, CEO, COO types. In discussing it with her husband, she told him of a time where she failed miserably giving a speech that included other peer speakers instead of speakers she felt had more talent than her. I related to that. I felt like a failure and I felt inferior in life at the point when I read her story. All I could think was, here I am a blogger and mental illness advocate that just blogged about stopping suicide, trying to set an example and help people, and I am hospitalized! What else speaks complete failure? So, after reading her story again on my first night home, I made a terrifying decision. I decided to open up to YOU and publish my journal entries - word for word, grammar and spelling errors included (wow, that grates my nerves). The thought causes me to sweat even as I type now. BUT, in defiance of the shame, irrationality, doubt, self hate, irritability, psychosis, confusion, mania, hypomania, depression and anything else mental illness causes, this journey will now become yours if you so choose to read. My hope is you can see that 'broken' can become something 'much less than broken' again. I refuse to use the word 'fixed'. That implies 'works like new' and that was over the second I took my first breath with my childhood background. I won't use the word 'balanced' either. I still got some work to do. So, this is my journey. I do not wish it on a single person in this world. Even my two enemies. Though I say it becomes 'yours', your journey of hospitalization may (hopefully) never happen and if it does, it will be different. But I am now so convinced we ARE each other's best support system, that I am both nervous and excited to share.

So, before I let you loose, there are three things you need to know:

1. I was the victim of a crime on May 8, 2014. I can almost give you the time but I won't. It is etched in my mind and behind my eyes at random times during the day forever. It changed me. Laura was stolen from me without permission (not that anyone would have given permission).
2. Bipolar 2 and Generalized Anxiety are not my only diagnoses. I was diagnosed with PTSD December 2014, directly in relation to May 2014's events.
3. I made three consistent edits to my entry that were necessary:
   - details of my suicidal ideation and plan are replaced with the words "-suicide trigger-".
   - details of the event on May 8, 2014 are replaced with the words "-event trigger-".
   - real names are not used, however, look to the top of the blog. There is a tab called 'Glossary' and it gives the name and relationship to me. Use it if you find the blog confusing. If I would have ever thought I would share this publically, I would have done a better job of describing each person!

DAY ONE SUMMARY - I know I got to Mesa Springs sometime early afternoon because I had just found out my nephew Ricky's cancer had returned and I looked at my phone time as I stood outside the doors to call him and tell him I loved him before going inside. I was hysterical when I found out, even though his caring bridge entry was full of hope and determination. I don't remember anything else about getting there until I was shown my room and told that was the second time I had been in there (I wanted to know who touched my clothes) and my things were already put away by me! Obviously, the big name 'Laura' on my door wasn't big enough to show me where I was now living at that point. I was so clouded and confused. I hadn't slept since Saturday. I was very stressed and emotional and scared. And I have been hospitalized before so I should have known the drill. I would describe this entry by saying that at this point, I think I am the only person in the world that can fail at bipolar - you know, like how pigs can fly as hell freezes over and the Eagles win a Super Bowl...that really isn't possible. Oh! Language warning! Here I go...

JOURNAL ENTRY - Thursday, June 4
So here I am. Loser LB46-1. Room 412A. That is what my wristband says. Yeah me. Like who the fucking cares, I don't. They do. Insurance money. Get to know me and they are gonna want to return that shit as fast as possible and send me home in the first taxi they can call. Shit if they are smart, they wont wait for a taxi. Just throw me at the door and say see ya. They don't have to say don't wanna be ya cause that part is obvious. My eyes are sandpaper. When did I sleep? Saturday? Sunday? Who cares. I suppose I will see Dr. Kennedy and he will give me sleep meds. Yeah me. Nightmares. What I deserve though. Dumb fuck. I bet he is going to fucking mess with my meds...til he figures out how futile that is. Tonya says he is good. No worries. I will just smile, lie, do my time, and go. Lying is so fucking easy anymore. Fuck him. He will figure out how much of a waste of time I am. So it is the joy of a med set change and then the happy wait of seeing how long it takes for me to screw that one up once I am free. Woo the fuck hoo. Like I need something else to tell me I suck. What the fuck do they want. Prozac, wellbutrin, celexa, lexapro, zoloft,  Citalapram, effexor, Cymblta, zyprexa, seroquil, trazadone, ambien, lunestra, resperidol, Lithium, Abilify, Pristiq, Lamictal, Buspar, xanax (oh yeh), klonopin, what else. Like I can fucking remember. I know there is more. Why am I me? Why god damnit. It is cosmically deserved punishment. I tried so hard to figure it out. O I just thought I was smart. Ha. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight. Stupid Fuck. Why? I am such a fuck I say I love the boys but I cant even do the innate thing a mother does. They wont fucking give me permission to die. I do have enough brains to know that isn't love. But add selfishness to the fucking list of failure cuz I just don't care. I want it. Like I WANT IT. But being the fuck I am I cant even deserve that. God the fuck damn, I have even lost my words. I think maybe I was once whole. Dunno... It is a logical thought. Words are me. They compartmentalize me and give me purpose. I can define my fuckedness by words. Poems. Lyric. Journal. Blog. Now I obviously don't even deserve those. My brain is fucking mush to punish me for being such a fuck. Like is it even in there anymore. Maybe the nightmares steal it like they do my hands. I don't deserve hands either. They just fuck people up when I write. Stupid idiot. Like I feel them in me trying to take flight, but they fall to the ground and die.  I'm in labor and my words are stillborn. They die before a breath. Lucky words. Ha I can still crack myself up. I just cant take the filth in me anymore. Come on asshole - reality. Hey one for the fucktard to be smart enough to know that. Whats the damn score? 1 to what - infinity? As if I care I AM NOT SUICIDAL. I just don't care. Empty. Void. Numb. Nothing. Nada. I. DO. NOT. CARE. nope. don't try to understand me. Don't call me. Don't care damnit. What a fucking waste of your time. Why haven't you all figured out this obviousness by now? My stupidity is rubbing off. I am capable tho. Capable of dragging them thru hell because they are obligated to care. Nothing left sargent. I am on the cliff. There is the rail that that is forced to protect me from tumbling over. Fuck, I am not standing behind the damn thing, I am leaning over as far as I can on my tippy toes and trying to fall because I am a dumb fuck and forget to crawl over. Why not. The bottom is the only thing beautiful about me. My death. The best for all involved. I AM NOT SUICIDAL. I just know what is best for everyone and I am so dumb, I cant figure out the words to tell them it is ok cuz the words deserted me. I deserve that too. I just don't care. Jesus. I am here because I am obligated. I have children. OMG they are wonderful despite me. And since I obviously am such a piece of shit that I cant love them like they deserve, I have to come here. I owe them my life since they cant see the truth. Give them time I guess. If god loved me he would have given my children the gift to know they don't deserve me. Better off without me. Oh wait, God loves me, but I even fucked that up. I don't even deserve him. So I guess I need to be careful what I write. Wait no words because I am so stupid. No wonder. Am I writing? Is this a fucking nightmare? It looks like I am writing. Where the fuck am I anyway. Someone is fucking with my head again. Damnit leave me alone. Jesus Christ what is reality these days except I need permission to die. I am a failure. Stupid Worthless fuck. Wow that is such a nice thing to say about me. I need new words. The ones I have don't do me justice. They are too nice. It doesn't matter what I do. I fail. No cure for me. No remission. Just fail. Inevitable. Meds even know it so they give up too. The sand is solid and smooth at the top of my hourglass. And it falls through the tiniest of holes as its minute piece. It falls to the bottom. It reforms. different and ugly, in a unsymmetrical pile. A smart person turns the hourglass over and starts again. I don't deserve it. I just fail. I am the epitomy. I don't even deserve poster child. Ugly. Filthy. Poison. Venonmous. I am so tired. I cant do this anymore. Please. Grant me death. Mercy. I beg you tho I don't deserve it. Even if my toes give way, I will be that sand. Stuck at the bottom and ugly. But even my toes know to hate me. Protect those that think I help. I am a fraud. Protect them from my insanity. My poison. My despair. My heart filled with rage at myself for continuing to breathe. I am bipolar and it is stronger than me. None of that have bipolar shit I spout. It has swallowed me. I am it. It swallowed the boil that I am leeching with pus. It will digest me and spit me back out, more blasphemous than before. WEAK. BEATEN. POISON. WORSE. CANCEROUS BOIL SPEWING VENOM. It IS me. It OWNS me. Waste. Feces. A maggot. Spit out to the bottom of the hourglass and even more stupid to turn it over that now I will not even see the stupid. I am weak. I fail. Please. Mercy. I beg you. I can't. I just can't. Love me and give me permission. I know I don't deserve it but please just lie and love me. It is the best thing you can do for you. Someone help me let them see the only wisdom I have. Give me the words. Stripping my words is the last thing for me. I didn't need confirmation but no words confirm it. Then they can be free. Then they can be happy. Then they can have the life they deserve. Then everyone is protected. My head is exploding. It wont leave me alone.

Day Thirteen - My Journey Through A Mental HealthFacility

It was Wednesday June 3, and time for my 7:00p appointment with Tonya. She opens with the typical "So how are you?" and each session I normally put a lot of thought as to what I am going to say. I foolishly think I set the tone. I mean, it isn't like she doesn't already know how I am doing! I truly suspect the woman is psychic. And I don't believe in psychics. Last session she asked 'the question' and all I said was, "I'm not." I had thought about what to say but really didn't care what answer to give that week, so I was just kind of flippant. The woman still got me to talk meaningfully for 60 minutes though. June 3, I thought and thought, but hadn't come up with the exact words yet. You see, I had a plan. I knew I had shut down and was beyond help. I had begun to willingly and quite easily lie to the people I love and count as my support group, or I just ignored them. I didn't want them to know. I didn't care anymore. It became none of their business in my mind. Why bother when I was failing so miserably? I haven't ever willingly lied to my support group. Ever. But Tonya was the only one left that I was being honest with (well, except she had no idea I was lying to everyone else, but in my defense, she never asked, so maybe she isn't psychic after all). I knew the choice of words was paramount to my plan. Anyway, I went to the session to slyly try and get her to help me figure out how to get permission from my children to die. Now, I think I am pretty smart, and was convinced I could fool the best therapist I have ever had in my life to get the answer I needed, even though she seems to see right through me with a single glance. Sometimes I won't look at the woman. She reads my mind! I thought I could trick her into slipping up and giving me a way to gain approval from my boys to die. I rationally know suicide is selfish. I know it permanently hurts those left behind. It is a huge reason I fight as a mental illness advocate. However, I had played my last card. I asked my children for permission to die and they said no. And besides, in my head, I wasn't suicidal. I just wanted permission to die.

So we sat down, she looked at me, asked 'the question', and I will be damned if out of my mouth popped the words, "I think I need hospitalization, but I can't afford it." I swear to you my mouth dropped a bit and I thought, "WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY?" Tonya didn't immediately tell me how silly of a reason lack of money was not to admit myself, but thanks to her, I did end up admitting myself to Mesa Springs in Fort Worth, Texas, early afternoon on June 4. I agreed to it midway through the session and went home with a game plan to get things in order within 24 hours so I could go. During my 90 (I got 30 free minutes that night) minute session with Tonya, I kept telling her I wasn't suicidal, but I did have one heck of a fool proof plan I was happy to share and thought pretty highly of myself for thinking of it. Why not share? I wasn't suicidal. She didn't challenge me. Instead, she helped me to admit to myself that my preoccupation with gaining approval to die would eventually become greater than the need of my children's approval. And she isn't as smart as she thinks. I know now she made it seem like my idea, but she led me right to the watering hole. She never once told me, "Yes, you are suicidal." And, even though I just didn't care, I did obviously care enough to not want that preoccupation to become true. That is just how good she is. Or maybe she is the sly one??? Hmmm...

I was inpatient for 13 days. The first night home, June 16, I knew I wanted to blog about this, but had no idea how. How could I explain a journey from void to hope and make sense enough to touch someone else? I read a book that Tonya brought to me while there (told you she is awesome). The author tells the story of feeling inferior about giving a speech in which the other speakers are all CFO, CEO, COO types. In discussing it with her husband, she told him of a time where she failed miserably giving a speech that included other peer speakers instead of speakers she felt had more talent than her. I related to that. I felt like a failure and I felt inferior in life at the point when I read her story. All I could think was, here I am a blogger and mental illness advocate that just blogged about stopping suicide, trying to set an example and help people, and I am hospitalized! What else speaks complete failure? So, after reading her story again on my first night home, I made a terrifying decision. I decided to open up to YOU and publish my journal entries - word for word, grammar and spelling errors included (wow, that grates my nerves). The thought causes me to sweat even as I type now. BUT, in defiance of the shame, irrationality, doubt, self hate, irritability, psychosis, confusion, mania, hypomania, depression and anything else mental illness causes, this journey will now become yours if you so choose to read. My hope is you can see that 'broken' can become something 'much less than broken' again. I refuse to use the word 'fixed'. That implies 'works like new' and that was over the second I took my first breath with my childhood background. I won't use the word 'balanced' either. I still got some work to do. So, this is my journey. I do not wish it on a single person in this world. Even my two enemies. Though I say it becomes 'yours', your journey of hospitalization may (hopefully) never happen and if it does, it will be different. But I am now so convinced we ARE each other's best support system, that I am both nervous and excited to share.

So, before I let you loose, there are three things you need to know:
I was the victim of a crime on May 8, 2014. I can almost give you the time but I won't. It is etched in my mind and behind my eyes at random times during the day forever. It changed me. Laura was stolen from me without permission (not that anyone would have given permission).

Bipolar 2 and Generalized Anxiety are not my only diagnoses. I was diagnosed with PTSD December 2014, directly in relation to May 2014's events.

I made three consistent edits to my entry that were necessary:
- details of my suicidal ideation and plan are replaced with the words "-suicide trigger-".
- details of the event on May 8, 2014 are replaced with the words "-event trigger-".
- real names are not used, however, look to the top of the blog. There is a tab called 'Glossary' and it gives the name and relationship to me. Use it if you find the blog confusing. If I would have ever thought I would share this with the general public, I would have done a better job of describing each person!


DAY THIRTEEN SUMMARY - This is how I came to decide to publish these journal entries. I hope they have meant something to you. I will do one more entry to this series. I want to you see that an inpatient stay is just the beginning in the fight against bipolar if and when it becomes necessary. Oh, and LuBrano-Lavadera was my mother's maiden name. My dad and she met during World War II in Morocco. They fell in love while she taught him French and he taught her English. It was part of a program the Army did where they had a family adopt someone serving in the army for dinner once a week. She was a war bride!


JOURNAL ENTRY - Tuesday, June 16
I am home. I have no latuda and yeh I got really upset. I knew I would come out to some sort of stressor but that is to be expected. Well, besides the stressor that Lenny was late, of course. Like I expected anything else. But Ian smelled so good and I couldn't let go of him and couldn't stop smiling. It felt so good to hug him and be in his arms again. I missed my baby. He had just gotten off from Six Flags and I still couldn't stop smelling him. I love my baby. Anyway, real life is stressful. I panicked about the latuda. Took a visteral. Stacey and I spent the day together as much as possible. I never expected to connect to Diana and Stacey like I have. I do not want to lose contact with either and I know I won't with Diana, but I respect Stacey's boundaries and know I may never hear from her again. We colored mandalas and talked and laughed and just hung out. We stole a whole set of colored pencils from the group room this morning! Heh Heh. I brought home two. Bill my insurance fuckers. I did leave the stolen pen to my credit. And all those god awful golf pencils. Good lord may I never see another golf pencil. I think I will even refuse to play putt putt from now on. Crack myself up. Anyway, I have made a decision. This scares the shit out of me. I am going to publish this journal. Word for word. Craziness for craziness. Negative to positive. Maybe even my hateful picture. Ok, maybe not that one, but maybe. It IS part of the story. Broken to something less than broken. I shall see what happens. Talk about nuts Laura. Geesh you take the cake. But hopefully I will touch someone. Help someone. BROKEN!!! And I have done it. I am NOT AS BROKEN. Damn, if I can do it anybody can. My perfectionism. My self esteem. My LuBrano combined with Culross stubbornness. My fucked bipolar. Yeh yeh I know girl, my bipolar, not my fucked bipolar. Just bipolar fuck off. I am still here. I can still smell my children. I can't wait to see Daniel. I want to smell him. Yeh I know you are weird girlfriend. Anyway, on point...my bipolar but fuck off bipolar. I can live with you. Up and down, I can do it. And now the real work begins. I don't have a way to php even though Diana offered. I just don't want to impose. So, the real work begins with Tonya if I can get her to do therapy over the phone since I have no transportation right now. I wonder if she Skypes? HELL NO. I would have to stare her in the eyes for an hour and I can't do that. I wonder if she ever notices how much I look around the room. What am I thinking, of course she does. So, yeh, publish the journal. Be courageous. Tell my heart. Be brave like Brene Brown. Yeh, think I will sleep now. God Laura, you rock. Ok, you suck too, but you rock you fucking survivor. I fucking want to get my nose pierced. My celebration of life. Good night love. You bitch! LMAO. Crack myself up. Jesus am I really gonna publish this? Yep. iamCULROSS...hear me roar! Holy shit, I am going to publish my journal. Wow. Extraordinary courage? Yeh, give myself credit. Man am I scared. But going be like that Brene Brown talk and tell the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Yep. Pat on the back. Pat! Now shut up and go to sleep. Yes ma'am. Good night girlfriend. Love you. You deserve it. Your own love you know. You deserve it. As is. Right now. Now shut up.

Day Twelve - My Journey Through A Mental Health Facility

It was Wednesday June 3, and time for my 7:00p appointment with Tonya. She opens with the typical "So how are you?" and each session I normally put a lot of thought as to what I am going to say. I foolishly think I set the tone. I mean, it isn't like she doesn't already know how I am doing! I truly suspect the woman is psychic. And I don't believe in psychics. Last session she asked 'the question' and all I said was, "I'm not." I had thought about what to say but really didn't care what answer to give that week, so I was just kind of flippant. The woman still got me to talk meaningfully for 60 minutes though. June 3, I thought and thought, but hadn't come up with the exact words yet. You see, I had a plan. I knew I had shut down and was beyond help. I had begun to willingly and quite easily lie to the people I love and count as my support group, or I just ignored them. I didn't want them to know. I didn't care anymore. It became none of their business in my mind. Why bother when I was failing so miserably? I haven't ever willingly lied to my support group. Ever. But Tonya was the only one left that I was being honest with (well, except she had no idea I was lying to everyone else, but in my defense, she never asked, so maybe she isn't psychic after all). I knew the choice of words was paramount to my plan. Anyway, I went to the session to slyly try and get her to help me figure out how to get permission from my children to die. Now, I think I am pretty smart, and was convinced I could fool the best therapist I have ever had in my life to get the answer I needed, even though she seems to see right through me with a single glance. Sometimes I won't look at the woman. She reads my mind! I thought I could trick her into slipping up and giving me a way to gain approval from my boys to die. I rationally know suicide is selfish. I know it permanently hurts those left behind. It is a huge reason I fight as a mental illness advocate. However, I had played my last card. I asked my children for permission to die and they said no. And besides, in my head, I wasn't suicidal. I just wanted permission to die.

So we sat down, she looked at me, asked 'the question', and I will be damned if out of my mouth popped the words, "I think I need hospitalization, but I can't afford it." I swear to you my mouth dropped a bit and I thought, "WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY?" Tonya didn't immediately tell me how silly of a reason lack of money was not to admit myself, but thanks to her, I did end up admitting myself to Mesa Springs in Fort Worth, Texas, early afternoon on June 4. I agreed to it midway through the session and went home with a game plan to get things in order within 24 hours so I could go. During my 90 (I got 30 free minutes that night) minute session with Tonya, I kept telling her I wasn't suicidal, but I did have one heck of a fool proof plan I was happy to share and thought pretty highly of myself for thinking of it. Why not share? I wasn't suicidal. She didn't challenge me. Instead, she helped me to admit to myself that my preoccupation with gaining approval to die would eventually become greater than the need of my children's approval. And she isn't as smart as she thinks. I know now she made it seem like my idea, but she led me right to the watering hole. She never once told me, "Yes, you are suicidal." And, even though I just didn't care, I did obviously care enough to not want that preoccupation to become true. That is just how good she is. Or maybe she is the sly one??? Hmmm...

I was inpatient for 13 days. The first night home, June 16, I knew I wanted to blog about this, but had no idea how. How could I explain a journey from void to hope and make sense enough to touch someone else? I read a book that Tonya brought to me while there (told you she is awesome). The author tells the story of feeling inferior about giving a speech in which the other speakers are all CFO, CEO, COO types. In discussing it with her husband, she told him of a time where she failed miserably giving a speech that included other peer speakers instead of speakers she felt had more talent than her. I related to that. I felt like a failure and I felt inferior in life at the point when I read her story. All I could think was, here I am a blogger and mental illness advocate that just blogged about stopping suicide, trying to set an example and help people, and I am hospitalized! What else speaks complete failure? So, after reading her story again on my first night home, I made a terrifying decision. I decided to open up to YOU and publish my journal entries - word for word, grammar and spelling errors included (wow, that grates my nerves). The thought causes me to sweat even as I type now. BUT, in defiance of the shame, irrationality, doubt, self hate, irritability, psychosis, confusion, mania, hypomania, depression and anything else mental illness causes, this journey will now become yours if you so choose to read. My hope is you can see that 'broken' can become something 'much less than broken' again. I refuse to use the word 'fixed'. That implies 'works like new' and that was over the second I took my first breath with my childhood background. I won't use the word 'balanced' either. I still got some work to do. So, this is my journey. I do not wish it on a single person in this world. Even my two enemies. Though I say it becomes 'yours', your journey of hospitalization may (hopefully) never happen and if it does, it will be different. But I am now so convinced we ARE each other's best support system, that I am both nervous and excited to share.

So, before I let you loose, there are three things you need to know:
I was the victim of a crime on May 8, 2014. I can almost give you the time but I won't. It is etched in my mind and behind my eyes at random times during the day forever. It changed me. Laura was stolen from me without permission (not that anyone would have given permission).

Bipolar 2 and Generalized Anxiety are not my only diagnoses. I was diagnosed with PTSD December 2014, directly in relation to May 2014's events.

I made three consistent edits to my entry that were necessary:
- details of my suicidal ideation and plan are replaced with the words "-suicide trigger-".
- details of the event on May 8, 2014 are replaced with the words "-event trigger-".
- real names are not used, however, look to the top of the blog. There is a tab called 'Glossary' and it gives the name and relationship to me. Use it if you find the blog confusing. If I would have ever thought I would share this with the general public, I would have done a better job of describing each person!


DAY TWELVE SUMMARY - Just a few clarifications. I mention an internet service. We have an internet service here in Texas called Clear. My humor and thought process is fairly twisted like that. And I do crack myself up quite often! I have noticed over the course of the last few days that I started writing that again. I had a list of questions for Kennedy and wrote my answers next to them when we met, so I just included what was written in the margins of my journal in parenthesis. I write about crayons in this entry. I have since modified it and included it in my writings that I hope to eventually publish! It is simply named "Mental Illness In Crayola".


JOURNAL ENTRY - Monday, June 15
Release tomorrow? YEP! WOOT!!! This is very different for me and makes me think much. Have I ever been on a good med set like this before. I honestly don't think so. Kennedy is brilliant. I feel so different than any med set except how I was beginning to feel on the last one before -event trigger-. I feel so clear. A different clear than before. Is this happy? It IS different than hypomania. I'm not high happy. And I haven't been high happy outside of hypomania back in the day. I don't have any of the disillusions with hypomania. Nothing reckless. Nothing irritable. No ants crawling all over my body while I love every single thing about life and think I can do everything. I even love the ants because it makes me feel alive. They do make me really irritable though. My body wants to sleep - well thank you valium. I don't have my mind in a million directions thinking of all the things I need to start and do, or these brilliant ideas that I know can make a difference if I just start them, but really have no idea how to go about them, and try anyway only to abandon them when the next one hits. It is just different. It is ... clear. Dunno. Maybe I am the internet service. High speed. Occasional blip, usually when I need the service the most. But ready to process information at the listed top speed. Not faster. Not slower. Just regular 4g. DAMN DO I CRACK MYSELF UP. Jesus what if this one gives out? Ugh. Don't think that. Ha. Caught myself. How about please please please don't give out or I will cry? Meh. Go with it.

Questions for Kennedy:
- will Prazosin make me completely dreamless cuz that sure would be nice (no, you will still have good and bad dreams. Dreams are essential for proper sleep. You will still have nightmares, you will be unable to remember until they stop when you come to terms with what happened)
- I had bad side effects from resperidol. Am I more susceptible to side effects from Latuda. A lot of them are the same (no)
- are there other drugs like resperidol or latuda - same family that don't have those side effects. Abilify did nothing. Lithium didn't. Zyprexa stopped working. (yes)
- had a nightmare about Lenny last night but don't remember it except I found Valentine presents - the same ones but in different colors - and wondered who they were for and then found out he had been recording my phone conversations because he wanted to prove I am a liar and everyone knew but Ian and Daniel and Ian found out and got really mad and upset with Lenny and I felt like it was all my fault because I wasn't good enough for Lenny to believe I don't lie and I felt like it was my fault that Ian was upset. I cried really hard in the dream. Ok, so I remember but ask this question anyway. Will those nightmares get better (that is a dream not a nightmare - see above)
- Latuda says side effect of bruises. 4 on right arm, 1 on left elbow, 3 left knee, 1 left shin, 1 right knee. All new since here and I don't remember hitting anything. Is that a problem? (no, you will just bruise easier but it is not dangerous. You will just bruise easier as the side effect)

The heart of compassion is really acceptance. The better we are at accepting ourselves and others, the more compassionate we become. - BB

Ok, so compassion meant to suffer with. So stop blaming myself and shaming myself and suffer or maybe a better word for me is to mourn bipolar and my childhood. Stop trying to stop it and stuff it and prove my failure. Accept it. Accept myself. Accept bipolar. I am angry about it again. Stage of grief over loss of health. Stop trying to be the perfect bipolar. Stop trying to be the perfect child that is over a bad childhood. Allow or agree that I am allowed to be sad about it and bipolar. Then, have the courage - speaking from my heart - to move on. PROFOUND FUCKING PROFOUND

Connection - the energy that exists between people when they are seen, heard and valued; when they can give and receive without judgment; and when they derive sustenance and strength from the relationship. - BB

Still think this can apply to me personally. Especially the judgment I put myself through. Be real with myself and don't deny bipolar. Let myself hear myself. Become valued to myself. Accept myself even with bipolar. Derive strength from that real. Connect to myself - my bipolar self.

One of the greatest barriers to connection is the cultural importance we place on 'going it alone.' Somehow we've come to equate success with not needing anyone. Many of us are willing to extend a helping hand, but we're very reluctant to reach out for help when we need it ourselves. It's as if we've divided the world into 'those who offer help' and 'those who need help.' The truth is we are both. - BB

We become more adept at helping graciously each time we graciously accept help says Brene. Why do I feel such shame at accepting help? LaShonda helping almost killed me. Think think think. I really need to figure this out because if I am to become a real advocate, that means I will help and I can become a better advocate logically if I also graciously accept help. Lots to think about on this. Lots. I hate getting help because I have bipolar and think it shows failure. But is that true? What if I ask for too much help? Am I fooling myself that I need help when I am just not wanting to do something. Am I fooling myself? I am always doubting myself. I really need to think this through more. I must change to become a better advocate.

Until we can receive with an open heart, we can never really give with an open heart. - BB

Ouch. Because asking for help shames me does that mean my heart isn't open??? Ouch. Hope she goes into this more. Lay this one aside as important but don't think about this one just yet.

If connection is the energy that surges between people, we have to remember that those surges must travel in both directions. - BB

When we spend a lifetime trying to distance ourselves from the parts of our lives that don't fit with who we think we're supposed to be, we stand outside of our story and hustle for our worthiness by constantly performing, perfecting, pleasing, and proving. - BB

Wow did she just describe me. I think I own bipolar, but I don't!!!! I have to own my story. Does this mean I should blog this journey I am on right now. YES! But how? How do I get a story across of going from broken to something less than broken??? I HAVE to do this. I have been thinking about what direction to take the blog since I have written three while here. I want it to do different. Could this be the start? I really have to think about this. I want want want to touch. Passion to touch. Bipolar is so livable. For others. BUT FOR ME TOO. How do I own my story and move forward. I want to advocate. We all need so much. I want change for others more than myself. Is that not owning my story? Hmmm.

Worthy now. Not if. Not when. We are worthy of love and belonging now. Right this minute. As is. - BB

Yes! Bipolar makes you feel unworthy. If you aren't balanced, you are embarrassed and ashamed of depressive and hypomanic states. So not true. Right this minute - worth. Depressive or manic!!!! Wow.

...fitting in and belonging are not the same thing... Fitting in is about assessing a situation and becoming who you need to be to be accepted. Belonging, on the other hand, doesn't require us to change who we are; it requires us to be who we are.

How has this woman gotten into my head and seen my life story?????????? Crack myself up.

We are biologically, cognitively, physically, and spiritually wired to love, to be loved, and to belong. When those needs are not met, we don't function as we were meant to. We break. We fall apart. We numb. We ache. We hurt others. We get sick. There are certainly other causes of illness, numbing, and hurt, but the absence of love and belonging will always lead to suffering. - BB

Part of what makes bipolar so hard. Think of cancer Laura. Have cancer and you instantly get loved and supported. You belong. People adopt you. Pray for you. Bring you food. Mention you at church in special prayer. Call you. Check up on you. Accept your 'sick' behavior as part of your illness. Mental illness. Not so much. Too much stigma. People don't understand mental illness. It isn't their fault. WE don't understand mental illness as a society in whole in truth. Not enough known about it yet. It is the brain. The best supportive people are ones with mental illness only because they live it too, but every bipolar is different and has different reactions and different states and so much different so even that support isn't exactly right. Society knows so little that they can't understand. Tell someone you have cancer and it is a different story. Say mental illness and the reaction is all over the fucking board. Not their fault. Brain. Not enough known. Inconsistent diagnoses. Inconsistent treatments. No cure. Relapses will happen. No I feel better and so they think it won't happen again. So, depressive and manic effects the ability to love, be loved, and belong. Interesting.

Loving yourself means trusting ourselves, respecting myself, and kind and affectionate to ourselves. - BB

The name of this book should be The Gifts of Imperfection for Laura M. Culross! Ha. Crack myself up. I just realized I don't respect myself though, so maybe this woman is good like Tonya.

Do not allow professing love and practicing love to be incongruent. To profess is feeling. To practice is action. Your feelings of love must reflect how you practice your love - honor, trust, honesty, authentically, compassionately, and with courage - both for yourself and in return. So that is what I just got out of that part. I need to love myself as bipolar. It is lovable! And, if someone can't love you with bipolar, then they are the incongruent one. See ya. Don't let the door hit ya.

If you feel you can love others but not yourself, remember that others can see the amount of love you have for yourself and it is like second hand smoke. Yikes. I kill people??? LOL. I can become a better advocate by loving myself. I can manage bipolar better by loving myself. Accept me. Right at this moment. As is.

This is my last night here. I spoke to Kennedy today and Mesa has done all it can for me at this point. Medically, I feel stable. That is all inpatient can do for me. The real work starts now. So many things have raced through my mind while here. So many changes. I know I came in broken. Shattered, really. I really hated bipolar and myself again when I came. It feels good to be out of that again. For me, it is a combination of a lot of things. But those things happen to anyone. I just so happen to also have bipolar. But I don't want to minimize that. Living with bipolar is hard. So many things happen to make it difficult. The biggest thing is that the very organ designed perfectly by God to help humans through a chronic or possibly terminal illness is the very organ sick. And mental illness is both. Chronic. Possibly terminal. Everyone is imperfect so we all operate in imperfection. But with bipolar, it just becomes so much more difficult. Mental illness as a whole is ignored by society. Even within the mental illness community I see division. Some do not want to recognize PTSD. Well, I am here to tell you Laura, never discount PTSD again because of what you read. This is a serious thing. But I also recognize where our community is coming from. The day I admitted I had PTSD, Tish piped up and said she had it too. So later I asked her from what and she didn't know and didn't remember. Yeh. For me, it is nightmares that are ugly beyond belief. Don't touch me if I don't see it coming. Rage. I feel like I cant even talk to a man because I am so scared. Although Matthew may be different. I don't know. I get scared in my own house so much because they still know where I live. I have to move when I can because I don't think that will ever end. I am literally afraid to open the curtains or go outside sometimes. I cant stand to see black trucks. All black trucks cuz I can't remember what specifically he has. I am afraid I am being followed. It is so much more, so yeh, PTSD is real. It needs help like other mental illnesses. Anyway, girl stay on point. We are ignored as a whole by society. Like we are going to go away if ignored??? And, having bipolar, NOT schizophrenia, but bipolar is thankfully ALL I have. I think schizophrenics are the most ignored. They scare people. And they need the most help. BACKWARDS!! Let's ignore brain cancer because it scares us. But I am definitely ignored at a personal level and a societal level. People just don't understand. But having bipolar becomes such a problem because you want to function, you want to be accepted, you want no one to know because they treat you differently and shit, you want to be a part of society, but lets face it...you can't be a member of society like it dictates at times. So, you hide, you shame, you can't help nor even sometimes remember how you act. And it becomes this vicious cycle that can destroy you. This vicious cycle of wanting to be productive so not wanting help but needing help. This vicious cycle of needing help but either denying it - ME!!! I RAISE MY HAND FIRST!!! - or not realizing it so you get worse...sicker. This vicious cycle of wanting to be productive, but you can't at times or you think you are, and really aren't, and then just feel like giving up because it never seems like you accomplish anything but riding waves. It's like fuck it. Fuck trying to explain. Fuck trying. Fuck everything. Just throw me in the sea and I'll ride the waves til I can't anymore and it really doesn't matter. This vicious cycle of wanting to be rational but unable to be rational and then shaming yourself. This vicious cycle of people not understanding, seeing you happy and thinking it will stay that way, and when you fall up or down again, they begin to tire of you because they just don't understand. So many vicious cycles that lead us, in part to more mood swings or longer mood swings. We are self destructive and don't mean to be. We are our own enemy without meaning to be. Society is our own enemy without meaning to be. How do I change this? I can't. But I can certainly be a voice. How can I grow? How can I start to impact. I want to. I want for me. I want for others that are alive with mental illness right now. I want for our future community of those with mental illness. I just WANT. I have to take care of myself better so I can do the best I can to help those that are suffering. My brain is my enemy but damnit, I am fucking strong and I will prevail. I will prevail during balanced moods and I will do what it takes to make those mood shoes that drop of shorter duration, and then while balanced scream from the top of the highest building in my loudest voice til I am hoarse for needed change. To help. To touch. I cant do it all the time, but when I can I MUST. I have bipolar and I am not going to be perfect. I can't be fixed. Fixed implies 'works like new'. Not possible. I just know I came in here very broken.Shattered into millions and millions of pieces. I came in not caring about anything anymore. I cared about absolutely nothing. Especially myself. I came in at such a low point that I literally hated myself just because of -event trigger- and that I have bipolar. How can I hate the disease I fight against as an advocate. I can't help people that way. I came in a liar. To myself especially, but to others, too. Those others, I lied to them. They are my support group. I can never lie to them again. It isn't fair to them. IT ISN'T FAIR TO ME. I can always redefine my support group. I HAVE TO LET ME BE ACCEPTED FOR ME. ALL PARTS OF ME. The good, the bad, the ugly. I cannot stop fighting...managing...surviving. I want. I came in in shame. Shame that yet again I had failed. FAILED? Hell no. I was a warrior to come here. I am a fighter to be so broken and irrational and incapable of thought that I came here and accepted help. I didn't want help at first. I was so ashamed at first. Shame I was here. Shame I was failing my own disease. Shame I was failing others. Shame I haven't held a job when I have always succeeded at jobs. I feel no shame now. How can I help others to not feel shame? My blog HAS to change. My focus HAS to change. I don't care what the community says about peer counselors. I can do it. I can make a difference. I can learn more than a peer support is required to know and help. Let people judge me. Peer support isn't an answer. It is a supplement to what is really needed for our community. I believe in it. I want to use peer support to speak. Speak at mental health facilities. Speak at NAMI - good god do they need help. Speak to high schools. Think of the help that our young ones need at that age Laura!!! I want to speak. I want to blog. I want to write a book. I want to motivate. I want to help. I want to give. I want change. I want. I want. I WANT. My head is clear and now work can begin. Meds have cleared my head. I feel content. I want. I know I am not hypomanic. I don't have the symptoms. Not the I feel happy in that hypomanic way. Not euphoria. I just want. I know I am happy because I am safe here and no stressors of reality. Well, except having to wait so fucking long between smoke breaks. Ha. Crack myself. Anyway, stay on point girl. I know reality is going to hit me when I walk out that door. And that is why inpatient is just the beginning. You don't walk out of inpatient and everything is fine. It is but a beginning. Just a scratch on the surface. NOBODY without mental illness realizes that. Inpatient just stabilizes you so you can work towards a new balance. And balance is fucking hard work to get to, let alone retain for any amount of time. Such is the life of bipolar. But it isn't THAT bad. I am blessed. Insurance. Proximity to have a place like here, a therapist, a psych, support groups. A roof over my head. Food. What about all of us that don't have that. I have to fight for them. I want. SO, no I am not fixed. UGH. Strike that word from the mental illness dictionary. While we are at it, strike recovery. I am ready to walk out, nervous as shit, but ready to go. Ready to face. The good. The bad. The ugly. Especially the bad and ugly. I can do it. I can do it and use it for my advocacy. I can help others to see that no matter what, they have worth and they can do it too and they should seek support and stay on their meds and it is OKAY to fall either way, depressive or manic. It happens. Like when you have cancer and go through chemo, do you say I don't accept that my hair is going to fall out? Of course you don't cuz it is GOING to happen whether you want it or not. SHIT HAPPENS. WE MUST MOVE ON. If for nor nobody but ourselves. WE MUST MOVE ON. Did I already say that? Ha!!! I want. Life. Breath. Love. SELF LOVE. Job. Good. Bad. Ugly. Ok, maybe stretching it with the bad and ugly, but hey, what did I just say Laura. I am strong because I face the bad and ugly. Back slap. SLAP! Ouch. I feel fire. Life. Advocacy. Me. ME. Me. I feel me. The good. The bad. The ugly. And I am still beautiful. There is joy, minute, but joy in having bipolar. That silver lining. That sliver. I have patience. Compassion. A true desire and purpose to help. A nurturing nature. Mercy - unless I am an ignorant fuck and I am trying not to be an ignorant fuck anymore. Will I fall? Yep. But God Damnit, I will rise and fight yet again. If I can they can too. iamCULROSS and still am even with bipolar. Mesa has made me understand I deserve those things for myself. Mesa or meds or does it even matter? Hence the ignorant fuck comment, right girl. I know I may need hospitalization in the future. But so what. It is an opportunity to yet again grow. Ok, so I don't want hospitalization again, but I have to mark this place in my journal to remind myself to seek it out hella sooner than I did. Stop wasting my life with denial. Embrace bipolar life. It sucks. It fucking sucks. It is demeaning. It messes you up. It destroys your brain. It really fucking sucks. But it is SURVIVAL. And I did grow. Sundance was great. But I am so much more real this time. So much more honest about me and my disability. And maybe one day I will have to get realer. REALER? NOT A DAMN WORD I THINK BUT IT WORKS FOR MY JOURNAL SINCE NO ONE WILL SEE. Thank God nobody sees my journal or they would think I am crazy. Wait I am crazy! Ha! Crack myself. I do not control bipolar. It does not control me. I live with it like I live with migraines and my neck. Push through. DIG. Deliberate. Inspired. Get Going. My new goto. And Get Going can be med changes and hospitalization if needed. It is definitely going to be therapy for the rest of my life and continual reassessment. Courage. Compassion. Connection. No more thinking I can't be bipolar and be successful and happy. I do it better than some and a hella worse than others. But bipolar is part of life. NOT LIFE ITSELF. So push. I want. So, med changes and hospitalization throw it at me bitch. I am not a failure. I am making the most self loving strongest decision I can. Fight. I deserve it even though bipolar. I have tried my best, and need help. Is it a Culross thing to never want help? But remember, Gifts says you cannot truly help unless you ask for help. So stop seeing bipolar for myself as black and white because I am a perfectionist. Oh shit. I need to really work on that in php if I can go. Or if not, with Tonya. You know the days in the life of mental illness are like that big box of crayons you always wanted when you were a kid, except the crayons never get used all the way up. And yes, they may break. But you can still use them. Our days aren't black. Our days aren't white. They are every single, separate color in between. Some are pretty. Some are ugly. Some are bright. Some are dull. Some look hot. Some look cold. Some are very dark. Some are very light. Some look a lot like other colors. And you will go through phases were you get to use the good colors a lot. Then you will go through times where you are forced to use colors you hate. Sometimes your favorite color will change. Sometimes you may have to unwrap the paper a bit to keep using your crayon. And sometimes, it gets so worn from so much abuse and use, ya gotta take a step back, a deep breath, and sharpen that fucker!!!! MEDS!!!!!!!!!! Daniel and Ian have been the biggest blessing that life has ever allowed me. Can a mother love her children this much. Everyone says that a mother thinks that. Fuck them. I think I still love my children more. They love me. ME! Bipolar and all they love me. They cheer me. They believe in me. How many times has Ian told me how strong I am and how much he believes in me! They kick me in the ass when I need it. Daniel is excellent with that. He is a great ass kicker!!! And they are such good young men. Both are so smart and talented. The best gift God ever gave any woman. I can't survive like I do without them. I love them. I love their touch. Their smile. Their laugh. Their smell. Oh god, Ian is with going to be with Lenny to pick me up and I can't wait to smell him and feel his arms. He hugs me so good. Can I love Josiah more? He has gotten the brunt of me in the last year even though I hid so much from him. I love that brother. MY brother. MY soul. My identical twin that is three years older than me. I mean, you know, I love him like an identical twin. OF COURSE I KNOW WHAT I MEAN!!!! Crack myself. Would anyone think it is strange that I talk to myself in my journal? I am weird! I love it. Stay on point girl. I never want to lose him. I cant wait to move closer to him. And thank God the surgery has seemed to go well. Ha. He IS a Culross. I just love Josiah so much. How can I ever get across to him how much? And Jonathon. That is one nephew I wish I could tell him what he means to me. Again. He loves me! I LOVE THAT CHILD. Not because he loves me. Part because he is like Josiah so much. So I was instantly fond of him for that reason. It was just the beginning tho. I remember when he came down here all of a sudden I just knew he was special. I just knew that I instantly loved him no matter what. He is a very special young man. He is sweet and loving and intelligent beyond his years. He is wise. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel special. He checks on me. He always is there. I love him so much even if he doesn't love the Cowboys! He is my Jonathon. BUT, I am so mad at him that he probably wont be in Indiana when I move. I secretly hope he is. Ha Ha Selfish. Hell yeh! And Charles. So wonderful to have him back in my life. I missed him. It hurt. So comforting. So warm. So good. I love him so much. I really want to open up to him more. I need to. I trust him. I have good people in my life. Not very many compared to some. But enough that I can't name them all. All of them positive and good and something to inspire me to fight and be a better person. I just want. I WANT. Yep, I, me, Laura, I WANT. I am happy for what I have done here. Good job Bitch!

Day Eleven - My Journey Through A Mental Health Facility

It was Wednesday June 3, and time for my 7:00p appointment with Tonya. She opens with the typical "So how are you?" and each session I normally put a lot of thought as to what I am going to say. I foolishly think I set the tone. I mean, it isn't like she doesn't already know how I am doing! I truly suspect the woman is psychic. And I don't believe in psychics. Last session she asked 'the question' and all I said was, "I'm not." I had thought about what to say but really didn't care what answer to give that week, so I was just kind of flippant. The woman still got me to talk meaningfully for 60 minutes though. June 3, I thought and thought, but hadn't come up with the exact words yet. You see, I had a plan. I knew I had shut down and was beyond help. I had begun to willingly and quite easily lie to the people I love and count as my support group, or I just ignored them. I didn't want them to know. I didn't care anymore. It became none of their business in my mind. Why bother when I was failing so miserably? I haven't ever willingly lied to my support group. Ever. But Tonya was the only one left that I was being honest with (well, except she had no idea I was lying to everyone else, but in my defense, she never asked, so maybe she isn't psychic after all). I knew the choice of words was paramount to my plan. Anyway, I went to the session to slyly try and get her to help me figure out how to get permission from my children to die. Now, I think I am pretty smart, and was convinced I could fool the best therapist I have ever had in my life to get the answer I needed, even though she seems to see right through me with a single glance. Sometimes I won't look at the woman. She reads my mind! I thought I could trick her into slipping up and giving me a way to gain approval from my boys to die. I rationally know suicide is selfish. I know it permanently hurts those left behind. It is a huge reason I fight as a mental illness advocate. However, I had played my last card. I asked my children for permission to die and they said no. And besides, in my head, I wasn't suicidal. I just wanted permission to die.

So we sat down, she looked at me, asked 'the question', and I will be damned if out of my mouth popped the words, "I think I need hospitalization, but I can't afford it." I swear to you my mouth dropped a bit and I thought, "WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY?" Tonya didn't immediately tell me how silly of a reason lack of money was not to admit myself, but thanks to her, I did end up admitting myself to Mesa Springs in Fort Worth, Texas, early afternoon on June 4. I agreed to it midway through the session and went home with a game plan to get things in order within 24 hours so I could go. During my 90 (I got 30 free minutes that night) minute session with Tonya, I kept telling her I wasn't suicidal, but I did have one heck of a fool proof plan I was happy to share and thought pretty highly of myself for thinking of it. Why not share? I wasn't suicidal. She didn't challenge me. Instead, she helped me to admit to myself that my preoccupation with gaining approval to die would eventually become greater than the need of my children's approval. And she isn't as smart as she thinks. I know now she made it seem like my idea, but she led me right to the watering hole. She never once told me, "Yes, you are suicidal." And, even though I just didn't care, I did obviously care enough to not want that preoccupation to become true. That is just how good she is. Or maybe she is the sly one??? Hmmm...

I was inpatient for 13 days. The first night home, June 16, I knew I wanted to blog about this, but had no idea how. How could I explain a journey from void to hope and make sense enough to touch someone else? I read a book that Tonya brought to me while there (told you she is awesome). The author tells the story of feeling inferior about giving a speech in which the other speakers are all CFO, CEO, COO types. In discussing it with her husband, she told him of a time where she failed miserably giving a speech that included other peer speakers instead of speakers she felt had more talent than her. I related to that. I felt like a failure and I felt inferior in life at the point when I read her story. All I could think was, here I am a blogger and mental illness advocate that just blogged about stopping suicide, trying to set an example and help people, and I am hospitalized! What else speaks complete failure? So, after reading her story again on my first night home, I made a terrifying decision. I decided to open up to YOU and publish my journal entries - word for word, grammar and spelling errors included (wow, that grates my nerves). The thought causes me to sweat even as I type now. BUT, in defiance of the shame, irrationality, doubt, self hate, irritability, psychosis, confusion, mania, hypomania, depression and anything else mental illness causes, this journey will now become yours if you so choose to read. My hope is you can see that 'broken' can become something 'much less than broken' again. I refuse to use the word 'fixed'. That implies 'works like new' and that was over the second I took my first breath with my childhood background. I won't use the word 'balanced' either. I still got some work to do. So, this is my journey. I do not wish it on a single person in this world. Even my two enemies. Though I say it becomes 'yours', your journey of hospitalization may (hopefully) never happen and if it does, it will be different. But I am now so convinced we ARE each other's best support system, that I am both nervous and excited to share.

So, before I let you loose, there are three things you need to know:
I was the victim of a crime on May 8, 2014. I can almost give you the time but I won't. It is etched in my mind and behind my eyes at random times during the day forever. It changed me. Laura was stolen from me without permission (not that anyone would have given permission).

Bipolar 2 and Generalized Anxiety are not my only diagnoses. I was diagnosed with PTSD December 2014, directly in relation to May 2014's events.

I made three consistent edits to my entry that were necessary:
- details of my suicidal ideation and plan are replaced with the words "-suicide trigger-".
- details of the event on May 8, 2014 are replaced with the words "-event trigger-".
- real names are not used, however, look to the top of the blog. There is a tab called 'Glossary' and it gives the name and relationship to me. Use it if you find the blog confusing. If I would have ever thought I would share this with the general public, I would have done a better job of describing each person!


DAY ELEVEN SUMMARY - There are two times I write my name in this entry. I literally signed my name and was going to take a picture, but I spilled coffee all over my journal while proof reading my transcription and that was the page I was on. I also hope this doesn't sound to disjointed. It isn't hypomania, but when I get thoughts at a clear headed level, I tend to think faster than I can write. My spelling becomes abbreviations. My use of punctuation lazier. I tend to run thoughts together trying to get them all down. My thoughts do race, but again, it isn't hypomania. It is just the Culross mind. Depressed, my thought is so slow, I get things down more clearly, if that makes sense. And, my humor with myself is much more pronounced. I love to joke. I love to laugh. There are quite a few people that can attest to that. It is Culross humor. And I proudly tend to think I own the title. With that said, I am going to let this day speak for itself.


JOURNAL ENTRY - Sunday, June 14
Racing thoughts. Write quickly. Bipolar can = impaired cognitive function = exacerbated perfectionism = distorted thinking or is it vice versus whatever = fear of mistakes = me unlovable in my opinion = me digressing mood or depressive state (doesn't happen with hypomania, I LOVE myself when hypomanic) = longer depressive state = unable to love self = also perpetuating hypomania when it happens = self hate = doubt = what are my feelings really = me hustling for worth = denial = resist or refuse med change = me. Duh. So boundaries. We talked boundaries in group this morning. Wasn't very informative. Tonya's was much better. But it made me remember her teaching it at Sundance. Wish I had that folder here. I would share. The group on grief last week wasn't like Tonya's either. She is so fucking awesome. But I need to set a boundary for me about me. Number one and first boundary. Most important. Self love. Acceptance. Awareness. Stop hustling for love. Have feelings. Allow feelings. Pondering is acceptable. Necessary as I learn and practice, BUT allow having and acting on MY feelings, not what I think everyone else thinks I should feel or what I think everyone thinks I should feel, I am always guessing. I perfect guessing. That in itself is a distorted thinking. Anyway. Ponder carefully but stop hiding and denying myself. That = exacerbation. Allow to feel. Allow confidence in bipolar. It is but a part of me and certainly not the reason to not be me. Allow bipolar. Depressive and hypomania. STOP DENYING. Consequences? If a mistake not a failure. DEPRESSIVE OR HYPOMANIC STATE IS NOT FAILURE. It is part of my disease like a reaction to chemo. God forbid I ever have cancer tho. Please God save Ricky. Anyway. I digress yet again! IT FUCKING HAPPENS. Adjust. Learn. Continue. Relax. Forgive myself for not controlling the depressive the hypomania. Accept. I. Am. Enough. Damnit Tonya I Love you. You are so smart. Accept I am imperfect like everyone else AND I HAVE BIPOLAR, so maybe a bit more imperfect than others. Continue. Apologize if necessary. Learn. Seems like a fucking awesome plan. Now I gotta do it. Waiting on Kennedy and here is what I need to say. Make sure to take this with me you forgetful old woman. Ha 50. Old? NOPE.

I would like to discharge Tuesday at the earliest. Even after yesterday and us talking about the mistake, I felt suicidal. I just wanted to go home and - suicide trigger-. I haven't had two days without ideation. I want two things to release:
1. two days without ideation or severe mood drop or panic at the drop of a hat
2. time to finish Tonya's book before I have to leave this safety and face pressure again

Ha. Proud of myself. I am standing up for what I feel. High five. Back slap. Slap! I have realized I am very good at setting myself up for a sure fail bipolar system. LOL. I know, no failure, but I make myself and allow myself to make many failure mistakes. What the hell else am I supposed to call them. I don't let myself have a chance at winning. God even that doesn't sound good. What the hell do I mean? How do I write it. Anyway, I live like I think meds control bipolar, but then resist or refuse change. I always hide the hypomania or think the depression is situational. How do you know what is situational hypomania or depression anyway. I asked Timothy and his answer was clear as mud. No help. Thanks anyway dude. But I believe emotions and thinking patterns are a result of life's experiences and do not effect-affect bipolar. What? They are a part of bipolar. That is what makes it difficult. I have this brain disease and need my emotions and thinking patterns to live through this disease and the very organ I need is the one that is fucking diseased. So my thinking is wrong. No duh. It is diseased, but I set myself up to screw up. And two wrongs don't make a right. Crack myself. In my case it made hospitalization. Ha Ha Ha, I allow bipolar to control me because I am at times limited in cognitive function but refuse the help that will get me back to cognitive function. I get confused. Nah, I just get controlling. I fucking HATE med changes. Change and wait a month for results????? Jesus Christ. Just leave me where I am and I will cope. That is wrong wrong wrong. Patience. Need patience. Need more education. I still don't understand this beast called bipolar. Will I ever? pffft. It is the old chicken and egg question. Which comes first? Meds. Meds help manage, not control...MANAGE. Meds needed to do the personal work to manage and walk that spider web. Well, in my case meds obviously seem to, at this moment come first. I reserve the right to change my mind. Hey! I am so smart. I can change my feeling. WOW girl you go. Think think think. Is that everyone. Must be careful on blog. Remember no black and white. Fuck me black and white for me but nobody else. I see black and white for me and every color in the spectrum plus some for everyone else. Yep, that is me. Gonna stop that shit. Make it into lemonade...with lots of sugar. Ha! So, I officially with this signature using this stolen marker, declare not only will I talk the talk, but I will walk the walk - Laura M. Culross. Thank you Jimmy Johnson. Sorry but Jason Garrett is still a better coach. FUCK YEAH COWBOYS!!!!! LESS THAN 100 DAYS TIL THEIR SEASON OPENER. Shame on me. I think it was at 102 when I came in, but I cant remember how many now. Bad Cowboys fan! lol. Super Bowl Baby. Fuck the smeagles and those damn referees. Dez caught it!!! Bipolar is a brain disease. No solid foundation on its cause. No single cause. No root. Not enough known about the brain and ain't gonna happen anytime soon. Inherited biological chemical environment all of the above? More? Can't get much further til we learn more about that brain. So it is hit and miss. And then there is such division in the mental illness community, not just the outside community. Pass this law. No don't pass this law. Spend money here even though it doesn't help or is for stupid reasons. Really? Money spent by SAMHSA on anti-psychiatry. pfffft. Not enough money. Lets include substance abuse in our money even though they have their own. Pyschs not seeing patients because they are too ill. WTF??? Where are they supposed to go. Beds closing. Jails the new beds. Jails profiting and housing but no treatment. Homelessness. ER - stabilize barely and throw you back on the street. No follow up plan. AOT - proven but rejected. Freezing out family that want to help because of civil liberties. HUH? What about the right to life? FUCK CIVIL LIBERTIES IN THIS CASE. Homelessness. Stigma. Discrimination. Your insurance decides whether you get treatment or not. Limiting treatment. Who the hell is going to limit your chemo treatment. Police aggression. 25% deaths by police are mentally ill. Only 31% approved for disability but their number 1 approval is bipolar. What the hell is THAT telling us. Saying gun control is answer to mental illness crime? HUH? WTF. We are victims more than the perpetrators. Discrimination. Discrimination. Say you got cancer and the whole world is there. Say mental illness and you are pyscho, not to be trusted nor believed about anything no matter what. Your worth just disappeared in their eyes. Shunned. No job. Only 40% of bipolar can hold a job. AND THAT ISNT INDICATION OF A PROBLEM THAT NEEDS FUNDING FOR RESEARCH??? Like which problem do you want to choose. Literally. Where are our research dollars? Our dollars are going to mental health, not mental illness. Our criminally insane are allowed to kill each other or the ones that are there to help. Who seems to care? Post and ask for prayer and ignored. Post you have cancer and need prayers and the entire nation prays. HOW IN THE HELL CAN PEOPLE NOT WANT TO GET INVOLVED. Bitter? Hell no. I need and want to get people to become a voice. I need to be stronger in my own advocacy for my own life so I can help. WE need help. Honest, non judgmental, factual help. Research. Money. End stigma. Start with one law and progress. Tim Murphy. Research. More research. Beds. AOT. CIT. God yes CIT. Feelings, opinions, reactions, thoughts...they originate from the brain. Regardless of the past, because of bipolar it affects your shit. Embrace it as acceptable. SHIT IS ACCEPTABLE. No sorry. I can't help it at times. I fight that devil but I just can't help it sometimes. Damn I fight it. That isn't failure. That is small victories that I showed strength in fighting. But stop fighting it in the wrong way. Meds. Damn them. But meds. Practice makes perfect. No not perfect but something, better? Stickier? Balanced longer? I, Laura M. Culross, officially declare this my new motto...at least til I think about it again and have another breakthrough. I didn't have nightmares last night. Ummm, not since the 12th maybe. Ask Kennedy. When can I get off Prazocin. Immunity? Others? I have this memory that I was thinking about this morning. I know god is love. Agape love. So why do I not believe he loves me cuz I still don't. It was winter. Sunday morning. Everyone but mom and me gone to church. Blue wool skirt with the straps and white shirt that itched. No idea what I did wrong. But I do remember the EXACT place in the kitchen that I was standing. Right next to the radio. Staring out the window. I still see the snow. I still see the frost and condensation on the window. Right next to Josiah's chair. Mom was sitting in her chair. Turned around and facing me. I still see her. What I remember. Her words. GOD DOES NOT WANT A LITTLE GIRL LIKE YOU IN HIS CHURCH. wow. I didn't cry. But everything went black in front of me except the register in front of the window that I looked down to as she said those words. I remember that focus on the register. The heat was blowing at that moment. I can still hear our furnace. And all I remember thinking is "I am bad. I am going to hell. God doesn't love me because I am bad. I don't know why, but I am bad" Mom said so. And I figured Dad told her to keep me home because he thought the same thing. They had to protect me from God. It was fact at that moment. Have I done something to like that to my boys??? Please God tell me no. Some people react to life like that by going wild. I reacted by being whatever I thought I had to be to possibly gain forgiveness. The wallflower. The ultimate potter's clay. Never trust myself again because I don't know what I am doing. Allowing everyone to be the potter. Anyone. Especially that bitch. Mom and Dad weren't going to love me. God wasn't going to love me. I thought she would maybe love me. Obviously not. Now add bipolar on top of that. No wonder I get fucked up. And it is also a clue to me why I get to the point why I think I have to protect people from me. Profound girl profound. Oh, time for Kennedy!!!!!!

Ok, Kennedy says we can revisit Tuesday and no problem. Whew. LOL. He pointed out I am spelling his name wrong and it is Prazosin, not Prazocin - pray zoe zen cuz I asked. Dude is cool. No known immunity. Get off after 6 months and with good therapy and monitored by my pysch. So I heard that and thought, cool 6 months. Then I thought No dumbshit, measure by therapy first. I got a long time before ever getting over - event trigger- and the betrayal. Yes to other PTSD drugs, but since no immunity, don't worry about it.  Did I already say no nightmares. Worth repeating. NO NIGHTMARES. There. Repeated for sure. No flashback. No what is reality. OH! And I can't remember the last time I felt like someone was in my head. I think it is a combination of finally routine sleep and no nightmares. YES FOR VALIUM! YES FOR PRAZOSIN! Happily welcomed in the med family of my life. See, med changes can be good. STOP CONTROLLING!!!!!! lol Just one question. Am I in reality? Do I trust that yet? Nope. But gonna go with the flow. I think I am. Did I just contradict myself??? Time for bed. So what I have I learned today? I am clear headed. Low anxiety. Josiah is doing ok and no panic attacks. Lower anxiety. I honestly can say I am not depressed. I won't say happy. What the hell is happy without hypomania for me? I won't say balanced. I still wish the fucking plague on her. But, clear headed. That is a good description. This is good, right? I am running around the track at a comfy pace and not getting out of breath. I am on that runner's high. NOT hypomania high. I know that. Fucking love that. YUM. Just running comfortably with even breath and the great feeling that I want to keep running. The only thing that is racing through my mind though is how do I make this stick how do I make this stick how do I make this stick. That is dangerous. That is my learned behavior that makes me try to control bipolar. I do feel good that I immediately caught myself about the Prazosin. So I guess I am kinda catching this. Some days will be balanced. Some days will not be balanced - a little high a little low. Some days will be depressive. Some days will be hypomanic. But with stopping the hustle, perfectionism, resistance, and allowing I. Am. Enough, maybe the balance can stick longer????? If it doesn't, gonna have to force myself and train myself to not see failure. That gonna piss me off tho. I want sticky. Sticky forever. Who doesn't? Maybe when I get my own Gifts I will collect the best quotes instead of positive affirmations. Before Tonya, whatever his name was said it takes x repetitions of saying something before you believe it. I forget how many. But I tried saying my positive affirmations that many times and it dinna work. Go figure. I am more motivated by profound thought than trying to convince myself of something. I do have another big step here. I really have to stop cutting again. When I get out I have to control that and stop. That is one thing I think I can control myself. I mean, Tonya knows, but if she doesn't ask again, I wont mention. I can do this. I did it before! And yeh, stop lying to myself that I am not really a cutter. A cut is a cut. I am just a smartass cutter, thinking I am fooling myself and denying fact. Admitting that alone should give me the control to stop. God what if Ian found out. HEY! BITCH! I LOVE YOU. YOU. ARE. ENOUGH. nightie night girlie. Sleep tight.