After finally receiving a diagnoses, I felt both confused and relieved.  I wasn’t too sure what to make of “Bipolar” but I was willing to gather as much information as possible.  After years of instability I felt maybe this was it.  Maybe I had my answer and I could finally live a somewhat normal life.  This would not be the case.

I told my husband and my family that I was diagnosed Bipolar, and everyone was very supportive.  My husband and I did research to find out more about it.  We felt the best way to beat it was to be armed with information.

I spent time in therapy.  I needed it after such a devastating stay of four days in the mental ward with a bunch of crazy people!

Well, that’s what I thought.

I was compliant with my meds and was rapidly improving.  I was sleeping again, the visual and auditory hallucinations were gone.  The paranoia was getting better, and I was happier.  I was not back to normal, not by a long shot, but I was better.

As my doctor was increasing my effexor I reached my therapeutic dose of 225 mg.  Suddenly, 2 days after my final increase, I began running like a rat on crack.  I was cleaning, re-cleaning, and then cleaning again.  I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t sleep again, only this time I wasn’t tired.  I was running around everywhere, spending money again, doing stupid things.  I was going out of my mind just trying to keep up with my mind!

I voluntarily went to the hospital.  From the moment I got up to the floor with the “crazy people” I felt violated.  I felt emotionally and mentally raped.  I felt beaten and tormented.  I felt abandoned.

I spent the first night crying uncontrollably.  My roommate was a lovely girl, she had been in there for a month already.  She tried to help me calm down but there was no calming me down.  I felt like a child all over again.  I felt abandoned by my family, my husband, my friends.

By this time my immediate family knew what was happening and could not understand it.  I spent a lot of time trying to talk to them, and they all still said there was no need for such drastic measures.

I met with a psychiatrist and she was very concerned about my behavior.  It took a couple of weeks to get in to see her, but by the time she and I met I had moved somewhat past the events.  I was no longer in immediate danger of harming myself or my children.

I was still hearing voices, sounds, and feeling paranoid about everything.  I lived under a blanket of fear.  I lived behind tears and secrets.  I still had not told my husband the extent of the dangers I was facing, he and I were not doing well at that time.  I was hiding behind it all.  I’m still not sure if it was out of fear or frustration, but whatever the reasons I was still hiding everything from everyone.  The only person I talked to was my brother.  He feared for my safety, but also feared what might happen to me emotionally if he told my family what was happening.  It was my secret.

With all the terrible thoughts that began running through my head, I still had no idea what was happening to me.  I began to get violent to those I love.  I went on very expensive spending sprees.  It was dangerous.

I kept most of what was happening in my mind private.  Had I known what was happening I would have gotten help.  I thought it was just something I was going through.  I was trying to work at the time (one of many, many attempts to work) and it was making it even harder on me.  My job was very stressful, and due to the noises I would hear at night, I could not sleep.

I vividly remember when my oldest son was born hearing a horrific story of two teenage parents who had given birth to a little baby boy, killed him, and put him in a dumpster.  I was devastated.  I could not believe any parent could do that.  I didn’t understand it.  I struggled to understand it, and no matter how hard I tried it still hit me extremely hard.  I cried a lot.  I would hold my tiny precious little guy in my arms, stare at him, and weep for the little boy who’s parents decided he was not worthy of life.

Over the years, every story I would hear of a parent abusing their child, or parents murdering their children, it always forced me into a minor depression.  I would hold my little boy, give him an extra kiss, and be thankful for my own sanity.

I am finding more strength through my family.  I watch my kids be kids and I laugh.  I was laying on the couch last night watching a movie and my little ones climbed up in my lap for snuggles.

Their love helps me heal.

First my 6 year old, he climbs up and gives me the sweetest kisses.  He curls in as close and tight as he can and whispers “mommy, I just love you so much” as he steals a little kiss.  I was not in the mood for snuggling, and was feeling a little overwhelmed by it, but after those sweet words from such an innocent little person, my hard and bitter heart melted inside my chest.  We snuggled for a bit and I rubbed his back, he told me that I am the best mommy.  I smiled, and he scurried off to bed.

I have been very open about a lot in my life through my blogs.  While it can be difficult to talk about some aspects of my struggles and my illness, I feel it is more important to share them with my struggling peers.  I started blogging because I wanted others to know that there is no one person alone in any of their personal struggles with mental illness.  Sometimes I will sit at my computer in tears, typing away.

It hurts, tremendously.

However, I never hang my head in shame.  I try my very best to learn from every experience and try to become a better woman for it.  Frequently, I do feel ashamed of my behavior.  I am saddened by my outbursts, and my heart breaks when I look into the eyes of those I love after I have said something or done something that I probably shouldn’t have.

I don’t let it tear me down!

Sitting on the couch I glanced over at my beautiful four year old daughter.  She was twirling around the living room and attempting to dance, and she didn’t care who was watching her.  She giggled, threw her arms out, and continued to dance.  She had no clue, nor did she care, how silly she looked.  She was living in her own little moment of happiness, listening to her music, being a little girl.

I remember being that little girl.  Considering all the things that happened to me in my life, I still had those moments.  Moments where giggling in my daddy’s lap was the highlight of my day.  Though few and far between, I still had moments to enjoy being a kid.

Why do we have to grow up?

I have always had problems coping with stress.  For as long as I can remember, stress has never been easy for me.  My mom left us with my father when I was four.  She was “around” but took the absent parent role.  She was happy with that but my brothers and I struggled for years to overcome the abandonment.

When I was 9, my cousin, who was 23 at the time, was a bank manager.  He was shot and killed during a violent robbery.  It was the very first severe loss I felt in my short life.  I loved him, he was my hero.  He was handsome and strong, towering over me, loving me, and protecting me.  He was two days shy of marrying his high school sweetheart when that man took him from us.  It was an overwhelming grief I still have not gotten past, 22 years later.

I could go on and on about the many stressful and hard events of my life, but that would take entirely too long.  Sometimes it feels as though I was born into a life of loss, pain, and heartbreak.  By 15, I was pregnant.