When I sat down with my pill sorter and began filling it up with my morning and evening doses I began to cry. I believe a large part of that had to do with starting a new antidepressant, but I know the overwhelming sadness came along with the revelation that I am on too many medications.

How am I supposed to care for my children when I can’t keep myself together?

For the past two weeks I have managed to scare the hell out of everyone I know and love, I am filled with fear and anxiety, and have panic attacks at night. The panic attacks were so severe that I’d run around locking doors and peeking out the windows, certain someone was watching our house. I have also been mean to my kids.  I just can’t do this anymore.

I have posted previously about my oldest son.  He is a remarkable child with a beautiful soul and a loving heart.  He’s fantastic (when not getting on my nerves!) and I love him dearly.  We have grown up together, since I was so young when I had him.  We’ve always been very close and we still are.  We have both struggled together and overcome adversity together.  We have faced challenges together, and we are suffering mental illness together.  I don’t know how to help him.

Yesterday he had another episode of rage.  I believe he may be manic right now, and I had to call the cops.  I never could have imagined needing to bring law enforcement into my home to help me with him.  He’s such a good kid, I was stunned silent and scared with this latest episode of anger and rage.  I was terrified.

My last post “It’s Time To Fire My Psychiatrist” was about the negativity I received from my psychiatrist during my last “in crisis” session.  The outpouring of support and guidance from my peers was so amazing that it was almost overwhelming.  There were many questions and many suggestions.  I have taken time over the weekend to reflect on all the amazing support I have received and the wonderful feedback from my blog family.  First and foremost I want to thank everyone for all the help.  It has been wonderful.

So to start, I spent many years (and I mean many) in therapy.  Granted this was before my bipolar diagnoses, but I also spent some time in therapy afterwards.  Eventually it gets to the point where you’ve covered all basis and life flows smoothly enough to discontinue regular therapy.  (My opinion, go ahead and fuss at me!)  So I haven’t been in therapy for some time, and still don’t feel a need for regular therapy.

However, I am considering it again to help cope with all the medical problems I am facing, but that will come when I can afford it – hopefully soon.

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.