Through this wild and crazy adventure with Bipolar I have learned one thing: I am a bum. I’m lazy, I procrastinate, I have no focus, energy, or determination.

When a hypo-manic or manic episode takes control though, I am incredibly creative, full of energy and life, and I can really get things done. There is no procrastination, and everything makes sense. I am sharp-witted, smart and so incredible! I love myself so much during a manic episode.

Of course I do, that’s what Mania does!

During a casual conversation with my Aunt, she asked me if I had been screened for ADHD. Nope. Never. She then reminded me that I have many family members who have been diagnosed, and posed the question: what if my scattered mind is in fact dealing with some mild form of ADHD?

Hmm. Time to research.

If there is one thing I have learned above all else when it comes to a Bipolar rant (or rage), it’s that it affects my entire family in dramatic ways. I don’t feel the degree of my mood swing matters; I think it is the act itself of losing control that has the most devastating consequences.

Shortly after my diagnoses, once I got on medication and started seeing things clearly, I noticed how my children lacked the ability to handle situations appropriately. They were not Bipolar, but I noticed that they were acting like me.

I was terribly ashamed.

By losing control, I was teaching my kids that losing control and yelling like a lunatic was acceptable, perhaps even normal. I started to realize that I was teaching them through my actions that screaming, yelling and losing it was the only way to handle stressful situations. One by one I noticed more yelling, more frustration and more arguing.

I made a decision that would change everyone’s life.

Why is it when my mood is most sour, my kids do everything in their power to irritate the crap out of me?

If I am in a decent, or even a good mood, my kids are angels. They mind their manners, clean up their messes, and rarely fight. On the other hand, when I am feeling ill-minded, they seem like four little terrorists making every effort to sabotage my own efforts to find peace. What is up with that?

I think it comes down to the negative air around here. Content breeds content, and hostility breeds hostility. There is my aha moment for today.

The past month or so has been terrible for me. I battle daily with thoughts of running away, ending my marriage, leaving my home and my kids, and sometimes ending my life. It has been a struggle for me to just get through the day. Throw a little stress in there and I’m done. You can find me on the couch with my pillow and blanket curled up into a ball. Yep, that’s my day.

Pole dance much? Why yes, yes I do.

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.