I’ve got nothing but my aching soul

I have been feeling de-humanised, detached from the very essence of life; unable to enjoy those things that should be enjoyable, no pleasure. no pain, nothingness. The emotions rage on without me but I am not the recipient nor the instigator of their feelings… anger courses and yet I am but a spectator to this show of insanity.

Then, something moves me so deeply that I cannot breathe; so deep that I cannot sleep at night for dreaming about it, fantasising, analysing… My heart fills with this that is the epitome of humanity, of feeling, life, pleasure; all of it. Enough is not enough, there is nothing that can stop my enjoyment, nothing to take the fascination away from this one magical thing that has brought me back to life, filled my aching soul and given hope to my empty heart. Obsession, irrational and destructive obsession, I must have this thing that makes me feel and I must have it over and over and over again – I must drain it until it is laid bloody and drained upon the ground, it must be mine – I must suck every drop of life, touch every inch… Never will there be enough of this thing that has brought me back to life, filled me to the brim with raw, painful, beautiful emotion. What are you, what significance do you bear? Is this real, is this emotion healthy? So deep, it goes so deep that I can feel the emotion in every inch of me, feel the life run through my veins, working my heart into a frenzy, a crescendo… up and up it goes, faster, faster, more, more.

Down I fall, spiralling, down and down, faster, faster… Tears fall and they are the sweetest tears that ever there were for I have felt, I am feeling… and yet it is too much, the emotions devour me, they crowd me, wake me from my slumber, cling to my soul and plague my every dream, the obsession has turned into a nightmare – there is no escape, there is no freedom from this curse that is emotion, these agonising feelings eat me alive… life raged on regardless while emotion ate at my ability to survive, my sight, my life; leaving disaster in its wake – a war zone, destruction. It is too much, too much emotion and too much devastation and all at once I am broken, I cannot cope, I am crushed by the weight of the thing that has brought me back to life. I ache for the barren lands of nothingness, I long for the endless nights of emptiness. There is too much emotion, too many feelings, I am lost in the sea of my fears, my tears, my anger and rage. Save me madness, hold me close and I will never forsake you again – take me away from this wretched reality, hold me close – take me once more into oblivion.

This is Bipolar Disorder, but a glimpse inside cursed mind.

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I want a perfect soul

My eyes are red and sore, my heart is heavy, I am drenched in the sweat of anxiety and my hands are shaking; I’m short of breath, jumpy, nervous and my heart is beating out of time. I feel as though I am on the precipice of doom once again.

Tonight some young boys that live close to my house were showing their full potential for stupidity and asinine behaviour and then inadvertently became the straw that opened the floodgates of emotion and depression that I had been holding inside and so had been building steadily within me, ready to explode.  My daughter caught the attention of these boys, teasing and irritating them and in retaliation they decided to throw things at my windows. I am not equipped to deal with situations such as these, panic grips me and I am useless… I went and shouted at them and they laughed and taunted me, now I can see that perhaps it was a nervous laughter but at the time it just cemented my worthlessness, they then decided to throw a stone at my window instead of a ball; I marched over to their mothers house and told her what had happened and it stopped, for now, but I will live in fear from this point on, of the repercussions and further harassment from these rather inconsequential boys – I will walk with my head down, I will cross the street to avoid them, I will make sure they aren’t there when I leave the house, my mind will haunt me with these boys, taunt me with the potential of things that are likely never to happen – I will fear these boys who are young enough to be my own children and who did nothing more than throw a few things at a window. I don’t feel better for having stopped them, I feel destroyed because really none of this is about them, they’re just silly little boys with nothing better to do, they were just the final straw. There will be other instances, anxiety provoking times and I will never cope with any of them in the same way others can.

Everything weighs too heavily on my shoulders, life is a burden. Problems are piling high and everything is my fault, I cannot cope so I simply do nothing, I ignore everything, I switch off, I become vacant, distant and still the problems build and still the people find distance and still life happens.

I want to dig a hole and lie in it, wait for the earth to swallow me, wait to be claimed. I yearn for quiet, for peace, for sanity but it will never come, it is simply not going to happen and that is what I cannot accept, this is my life and it will never get better, it might be different at times but there is no better for me.

I am alone in a crowd.

I am so furiously angry and yet so very empty of feelings, empty of will to start the climb to normalcy once again.

Nothing led me here, yet everything brought me here. Situations bring me to my knees but the situations have never been at fault, the idiocy, ignorance and cruelty of others is not to blame, it is my diseased mind that tears me down, it rips my happiness to shreds, taints the good and suffocates all hope. No matter what positive spin I approach it with it crushes it with the force of a thousand rotund ladies.

Dear brain, please stop punishing me, please stop killing me.

All about me

When I was in school we were made to write an auto biography of sorts, titled All about me – We had to describe ourselves, what colour of hair and eyes we had, our friends, hobbies, interests… etc I didn’t have very much to say, I enjoyed nothing, I didn’t have many friends and I didn’t really do anything but sit in my room and brood or lie to make myself sound more interesting. I didn’t know myself and I doubt very much that any of my 14 year old classmates could have said that they knew themselves either but perhaps now they would have more to say than me, what should I have achieved at this point in my life? I am 28 years old, young and yet in my mind, not so young, not so oblivious to the person I have become, not as carefree as my peers; and my one and only achievement has been having my children and learning how to manage Bipolar disorder… It doesn’t seem enough and yet it swallows me whole and I see no time or energy for anything else.

I realised yesterday that my mind has once again become all about me. It used to be this way before, when I was a brooding teenager with an abysmal relationship with my father, a complex about every inch of me and resentment leaking from my pores. It was all about what everyone had done to me and what they had not done for me. I never felt cared for, I never saw the things they did do because even the good felt bad to me, even the fun was drenched in misery. Again I feel all alone with my illness and my problems. I have realised that all I focus on, day in and day out, is Bipolar disorder and what it does to me, how it treats me, what it makes me do. I am once again sitting in a pool of deadly resentment and misery and the people around me are bearing the brunt of that. I feel unloved, I feel as though the world is against me and unwilling to help, I feel that I am constantly making mistakes, constantly a burden. Nothing else penetrates the self loathing that I feel and so I care about nothing but my issues, I see only darkness, I feel nothing but pain. I go through the motions of living as though on auto-pilot, I am the living dead, I talk and I listen, help and care without every really being there, seeing nothing, feeling nothing – all of my worry is spoken for, all of the care is gone and all of my life is bleak.

What do you do when you realise you are being utterly selfish, when you know logically that you are mistaken in your beliefs but you cannot convince your sickly mind to accept it?

How do I balance managing my illness with living my life when the management is so all consuming, when my anxiety turns even the most mundane of tasks into something akin to jumping through flaming hoops whilst balancing on a unicycle and carrying a monkey…

How can it not be all about me when I need to analyse myself each and every day in order to manage whatever mood decides to spring itself on me in that moment?

Maybe Bipolar disorder is just a selfish thing and I need to come to terms with that. Maybe I will never achieve my dreams, never amount to anything more than who I am in this moment, maybe this is it and I need to make that ok, I need to learn to be ok with the status quo…

I don’t want to be this selfish, dark and self-absorbed person, but maybe this is just who I am. Maybe this is all I can be.

 

The invisible me

On Monday I had my last appointment with my current psychiatrist, she is leaving her position and so a new doctor (my fourth so far) will be taking over for her. In my last appointment with her she outlined the future plans to build my mood stabiliser to a therapeutic level and then eventually try and reduce or remove my anti-psychotic medication. As I was getting ready to leave the appointment she said ‘It has been a pleasure working with you, I have no doubt things will get better for you – you always come to appointments, follow advice and you work hard’ I don’t know, maybe she said that to all of her patients in her last appointment with them but it meant so much to me. I do work hard, someone has seen that I work hard, someone believes me. One of the most frustrating and heart breaking things about this heinous illness is the inability to change the perspectives of others about your behaviour, the invisibility of your trauma and your effort. It doesn’t matter what these people say, what help they offer of how many hands they might lend, eventually that hand is going to be pulled away, leaving you to fall. They can’t understand why this thing they can’t see or comprehend hasn’t gone away, they see you doing better, getting out, making calls, having fun and then when the demon that is Bipolar disorder rips all of your effort bare they think you have stopped trying, they don’t see anything positive happening so they believe that you are not putting in any effort, they can’t grasp that you are fighting just to breathe, to keep your face steely and emotionless when all you want to do is curl into a shrivelling ball of snot and tears, they don’t realise that you’re expending every effort you have to resist screaming in frustration and despair because you’re back here again and that dreaded, dark, dank and lonely climb to normal faces you once again. All they see is your greasy hair and un-brushed teeth, your mass of mistakes and the piling chores that you cannot face… You are lazy in their eyes and in reality all they probably see is the work they perceive they will have to do for you now.

I am not lazy, I am a warrior fighting an invisible battle. Maybe this needs to be my new mantra, maybe I should shout this at all of the people that hold doubt about my illness or look at me with disbelief and frustration every time I ask for help or confide in them about my worries.

I am alive and regardless of the phone calls I can’t make or the ironing taking over my living room and the dishes growing penicillin in the kitchen, I am fighting. I am trying. When I am dead, when I act on the impulses plaguing my head that say this management stuff is too hard, this battle is not worth it and I am not worth it, then I will have given up, then I cannot be bothered anymore but until then I am trying – I am doing all that I can, I am fighting to the best of my abilities against an impossible illness.

My mum always used to tell me that a problem shared is a problem halved, how I wish I could share my problem, how I wish I could get some real help but this is all of the help it is within my power to get. I have never been good at asking for help, I never know how much help it is acceptable to ask for and I never seem to get it right – I don’t want to put the weight of my illness on to others, I don’t want to drag people down with me. What could help me anyway?

I feel as though I went to sleep in the warm and comforting embrace of acceptance and woke to the barren lands of disapproval and judgement.

I am pulling myself together, I am getting a grip, I am sorting it out and getting over itI’m not dead, I am a warrior.