bipolar – Page 4 – It’s All in Your Head

“…it’s about how much you can take and keep moving forward.” ~ Rocky Balboa

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Dear Breakdown,

So, this is the last time I’m ever going to talk about you because I’m sick of you still having a hold on me that way. I need to put you away…not forget that you happened, but not have you continue to haunt me either. K?

Anyhoot, I decided to write this now, because it was exactly 3 years ago today you started to happen. And yes, I remember the exact date. Luckily, it was right before a holiday that you started seeping into my life so thanks for that 🤨.

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It’s funny I used the word seep just now but that’s exactly what you did. At first it was like a tiny trickle telling me something was very wrong…but tiny trickles don’t cause much damage, do they? You know it’s there, but you also hope the damn thing just stops on it’s own. If you wouldn’t have become the deluge you did, things would have been a hell of a lot better, so thanks for that too 🙄. Gotta hand it to you…when you show yourself, you really go all out.

Look, I know a lot of things opened up that little crack that welcomed you in. I understand that. You were just seeing an opportunity, like breakdowns do…I mean, that’s sorta your ‘job’ if you will…and I was a great one to start working on.

I could go on and on about what led up to you, but that would literally take pages and pages and I’d prefer not to get carpal tunnel since I’m teaching online until January. I do know it started as a teenager though. Yes, I know that was eons ago (can we please not mention my age again…for piss sakes, we all know I’m a dinosaur 😐) but cracks were starting to appear already.

See…I knew I was different than other kids very young. I never really fit in, and when I did, I was just being what they wanted me to be. I think a lot of that was because I didn’t know who the fuck I was. (Sorry ma…I’ll try to make that the only one. But did you know that in Great Britain, that word is used as easily as we say crap? And you know what an Anglophile I am). As I started going through pubes, I could feel it getting worse and worse. So much was happening in my head, and I was scared. Very scared. I developed an eating disorder and ma got help for me. He turned out to be a sexually abusing asshole though, so I really wasn’t too keen on ever getting help again. I think that’s understandable, but I know I needed it.

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Fast forward the next couple of decades, and I buried and buried what I was feeling and tried to deal with it the best I could. Sometimes I was successful, and sometimes I failed. At times I’d get so depressed that I couldn’t hide it, or I’d be so freaking high I’d bounce off the walls. At least I could direct that into work and activities…I’ll tell you what, my yard is always the prettiest on the block and my son says my house is slowing shrinking because of all the paint I slap on the walls.

So, 1 had 2 divorces under my belt (😐), and was going through another one. Yep…I loved my first 2 hubbies very much and those divorces were hellish at best. But with R, it was really tough because we both still loved each other. We used the same lawyer, faced the judge together, and hugged each other and cried the entire time when our divorce was being finalized. But we were living 2 different lives and that just doesn’t make for a good marriage.

I met a guy and we started to get involved after R and I separated. He took my breath away and he said I was his forever. I felt the same. But, he was mentally ill too. He has Borderline Personality Disorder that as you know, without help, can be extremely difficult to deal with. He also has PTSD from his 3 tours in the Middle East. I cut him a lot of slack for this…something so many people in my life didn’t understand.

Three years ago today, I found out he was making plans to be with his ex-girlfriend who was driving to see him, and as we spent time together, he got angrier and angrier with me. It hurt me so so much because I had been very good to him.

He’s a lot younger than me, and I was always very self-conscious about that. So, I had a face lift that June. Yep. It wasn’t because he asked me too and he even tried to talk me out of it. But I was starting to make very bad decisions and I went through with it. I think him being with his ex later freaked me out even more since I took such an extreme step to be ‘perfect’ for him. Yes, I know that was my issue, but it was hard to deal with.

Then my nephew died on the USS McCain. He was born 6 months after my son, and all of the kids in our 2 families grew up together since we lived within a mile radius of one another. My nephews and son always played ball on the same team in Little League together, went swimming at the same pool every summer, and we all were members of the same church. L was a sweet, playful, funny kid that was very much his own person. After my son’s dad and I divorced, I never stopped being a part of my niece and nephew’s lives. L took a few of my classes in college, and having him there always made me smile. In fact, his smile was truly infectious. He came to see me right before he left for sea, and we hugged and I cried. His brother took a pic of us and that was the pic he had on his badge that he wore everyday. Losing him was the hardest loss I’ve ever faced. He was still a kid, and there’s no justification for it like you often hear with older people; it wasn’t a blessing and it wasn’t God’s will. It was stupid, horrible actions of the ones in charge. Period. It didn’t have to happen and that makes the pain even worse.

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A student started bothering me exactly around this time too. I was told to befriend him outside of class because his disruptions were too much to handle in the classroom, and I did. We talked and joked around and developed a friendship (we are the same age), but never saw each other out of school or even spoke on the phone. All of our interaction was online. One night, he got drunk and sent me texts telling me he wanted to rape me, kill me, and make me into a lampshade. I obviously sought help for this at work but was told it was my fault and had a letter placed in my file. I actually could have lost my job which would have killed me. Being a prof means everything to me and I am so invested in my institution and my sweetie students.

So, all of this led to the dam gates opening and you rushing right in. It seemed so fast. It was like you wrapped your hands around my throat, stifled my ability to breathe (I’m actually having trouble right now just writing this…another reason I need to purge you) and then shoved me down a black hole I couldn’t see out of. You know, I believe in God, in heaven, and in hell. I know hell is the worse possible place imaginable and outside our human realm of thinking, but I had a little taste of it through you (once again, thanks asshole).

You made it so I could hardly talk…it took too much out of me and I couldn’t expend the effort. I couldn’t go 10 minutes without crying. I had so much trouble eating. Sleeping. It was like I was in a trance. I was a zombie. I couldn’t do anything. I sat. I ate. I laid down. Day after day. You had gotten rid of ‘me’ and put this shell in it’s place.

So, I started seeing a counselor and my doctor who I’ve known for 20 years. They saw me more than once a week, and I was in constant touch with both of them because they demanded I be. As much as they helped me, I lied to them about the seriousness of some of what I was doing (I still can’t see my doc without bawling because I remember how much he did for me and how so supportive he was…he spent hours with me most weeks). I didn’t want them to know you showed me that razor blade, and when you did, I didn’t know what I would do with it when I took it from your hand anyway. But then one night I pressed it against my skin and cut. It hurt like fuck (my bad, ma) but it was something to concentrate on besides you. The pain in my leg was much easier to deal with than you were. My 12 scars are hard to look at but at the time, it seemed right. That’s how much power you had over me.

I guess that wasn’t enough for you though, so you showed me that bottle of pills I had in my cabinet. Look, you knew I didn’t want to leave my son and my ma and my family and students and the world itself, so why did you make my pain so bad that I couldn’t find any other way out? That was when God took over. He got me up off my bed and I threw up what you had given me. I don’t care what unbelievers say…I know it was God, because it certainly wasn’t me.

That’s when I finally saw a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with bipolar. After hearing my history, doc said I am one of the few cases that show itself before adolescence. When I do something, I do it well…huh? I got on meds, sought more help, and slowly climbed out of the black hole you were trying so hard to keep me in.

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And it’s over. It’s finally over. You’re gone. And as much as you might hate to hear it, I won. I fucking won. Look, I’ve run marathons, did a triathalon, and have really pushed myself physically at times, but those were cakewalks compared to you. Yet I beat you…I sorta feel like Rocky.

I slowly got strong again, and after a long while I started running because I could finally breathe and leave the house with getting panicky. I can’t tell you how good it felt to lace up my sneakers again. I was so proud when I did a couple of miles; for someone who used to run 40 miles a week, that doesn’t sound like much, but for me it was huge. I started doing yoga, and you should see my arms…they freaking rock. I started doing my art and crafts again, read books I hadn’t been able to concentrate on for so long, reconnected with neighbors who I hadn’t see for months and months, started posting on social media again and basically just started living my life without you.

Look, I know you’re out there. And I know you can come back at anytime. That used to scare the shit out of me, but here’s the thing. I’ve beaten you once, and if you ever show yourself again, I’ll kick your ass one more time. You don’t scare me anymore and I’m not going to live in dread thinking you’ll return. I’m too busy being happy, content, proud and healed.

You’re gone. You lost. You put up a hell of a fight for me, but I won. I WON. Me. So there.

Kristi xoxo

“Happiness depends upon ourselves.” ~ Aristotle

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So, what does it mean to be happy? Really think about it. Everyone says that all they want from life is to be happy…but what is it? Contentment? Security? Being loved? Having a family? Enjoying your career? A minimization of stresses? Is happiness the addition of good things/feelings, or a subtraction of the bad? Is it a concept like ‘love’ that has a different meaning for everyone?

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I’ve been contemplating this a lot lately for a variety of reasons. I used to think that my happiness stemmed around having a family. The white picket fence, “Leave it to Beaver” type family I always wanted for myself, and I pretty much had that when O was a little guy and his dad and I were raising him for the 13 years we were together. I can honestly say that was the ‘happiest’ time in my life since being a mama and wife meant so much to me. It was also then that I was hired as an adjunct instructor, got a full-time position, and then was rising up the ranks to being a professor. It was almost like the stars were aligned just right and everything that I had ever wanted came together.

Fast forward to my life now, single and living alone, and I ask myself if I’m happy like this. I never thought I’d be because here’s a secret for you: I was always VERY scared to be alone. VERY.

Even when others were at home with me, but I was upstairs while they were downstairs, I’d still be scared! Sometimes sissy would spend the night with someone and my parents would get me in bed before they went down to watch TV. I would lay in bed shaking…literally. My family used to laugh at how I’d sleep with all of my stuffed animals in my bed to where they surrounded me like a fence, but it was my safety net, so to speak. If anything could scare off a monster or axe murder, it was my pink bunny with the ears pulled off. I don’t think they know this or not, but I often snuck out of my room and would sit on the steps for a time just so I could hear them talk and the TV playing. I felt much safer then.

02052019_ted_182643-780x516 — Ted Bundy…Seattle Times.

Then, it was around the time I was in the 6th grade or so that ma started working outside the home full-time (and yes, I used to roll my eyes at that expression but after raising a son, I’m here to tell you that professoring is a freaking breeze compared to the work load of mommying) and my sissy was in High School. Ma would drop her off and I’d get myself off to school. No biggie…right? I had 2 blocks to walk and I was only home for a half hour or so before leaving. But I was petrified every single morning (which is why I often called T in sick to school so her friends could come over for a skip day, courtesy of my excellent imitation of mom’s voice that the school secretary never questioned) and having T at home for that 1/2 hour before I tottered off to school made me so much more comfortable. If anyone could stave off a Ted Bundy wannabe, it was T!

Even as an adult, I was scared. When M (Hubby 1) and I were married, he often had to work 3rd shift and I was alone in our green trailer (if I never see a toilet the color of a rotten avocado, I’ll die content). I’d pack up Scooter (my first ever dog), Sheldon (my parakeet) and myself and traipse over to ma’s to spend the night in my old room. She was married to R at the time (get ready for it…the fucking bastard) but even spending the night in the same house as him was preferable to being by myself. That, my sweet peeps, says a lot.

When O’s dad and I got married, we moved a couple of states away and sometimes he’d have to go on 2 day trips around Kansas (very exciting stuff) while I stayed at home with my baby. I couldn’t go to moms unless I wanted to drive 14 hours, so I’d barricade me and O in my bedroom with my German Shepherd posted outside the door (God bless you, Tessie) and would count the hours until morning. Hubby never understood why I was so freaking tired when he got home since O could sleep through the night by that time.

unnamed — The real Bloody Mary – First Queen of England

I don’t know what did it, but being alone started to change for me when I was married to Hubby 3. He spent his summers riding with his motorcycle club (gang 😳) and I was alone for 3 day weekends all through the season, as well as during his 4-5 day trips. I hated it at first, but then started savoring more and more of the aloneness (is that even a word?). I liked having the time to do whatever it was I wanted to do, but yes, I was still really scared at night. Do you remember the game “Bloody Mary”, where you look in a mirror, chant that phrase, and then you’ll actually see her ghost appear? Because of that damn ‘game’, I couldn’t sleep in a room with a mirror for ages. So, when Hubby was gone, I’d put a blanket over my dresser mirror that faced the bed, and hoped for the best. Eventually, I took it down…believe it or not, that was a huge step for me! (P.S. She never appeared…go figure 🙄).

So here I am now…alone. Everything I didn’t want to be but suddenly the situation I find myself in. Surprisingly though, I don’t hate it and in fact, sometimes I really love it! You see, I used to depend on others to make me feel secure. Safe. And to go even further with it validated…important…needed…and yes, happy too. I sought these things from everyone I had been in a relationship with. I wanted them to be the one stop shop where I could get all I needed just from them. I wanted them to be responsible for the things that made me ‘happy’ and as you well know by now, those situations didn’t last.

You know, I used to hate it when people would say: “You are responsible for your own happiness.” OK…I’ll jot that down in my little book of advice. But actually, it’s true. I think I turned away from the gist of that phrase because I didn’t want the responsibility of my own happiness. I didn’t want to learn to depend on me. Feel safe with me. Feel secure with me. That sounded like a crap load of work, and it was so much easier to put that onus on someone else and then blame them when I wasn’t happy. Right? Why take on a job when you can pass it along to another? (By the way sis, you still owe me a vacuuming from 1980 when I did it for you that one afternoon before ma got home…just sayin’).

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So, I’ve been put in a situation where I’m having to depend only on me. If I want to feel secure, I am the one to make that happen. If I want to feel safe, I have to understand I can take care of myself. If I want to feel content…fulfilled…’happy’…then it’s up to me to create that environment to do so. Period. Me. Just good old (cough cough) me.

And guess what? I’m doing it! Over these past months, I’ve learned so much about myself. I’ve learned how much stronger I am. How much more capable. I’ve learned to take care of me…by myself. I’ve come to understand I can weather storms with just me, Eddie, and Little Dot and it’s empowering every time. I have finally come to see that depending on me is something I’ve needed for a long long time. I’ve also learned something so so important: that being with someone who creates unhappiness for you is so much worse than simply being alone. I don’t NEED anyone to fulfill my needs now (although having one of those fulfilled…ahem…would be sorta nice), I’m doing just fine on my own.

So, back to my original question: is this what happiness is…at least for me? Yes. I think it is. I know when I wake up, I smile. I know doing things around my house to make it exactly the way I want it makes me proud. I know that watching Eddie and Dottie play out in the yard makes me laugh. I know that watching stupid movies and eating dinner on the couch with Eddie’s head on my lap makes me feel a sense of contentment. Maybe this wouldn’t be enough for someone else. Maybe it’s too ‘little’…after all, I’m not traveling the world or jumping out of a plane, but it’s what I like. And for me…that seems to be my happiness.

I still cry. I still deal with issues relating to being bipolar. I still get scared at times…lonely…sad. I still miss having a partner at times. I still want a picket fence family again. Right now, I’m cycling through a bit of a manic stage but with some depression in the mix (it’s such a weird feeling to be on top of the world while crying at times), and the other day, I was really struggling. I reached out to a friend and asked if they could come over for even just a few minutes to give me a hug and reassure me I was going to be OK. They couldn’t so I weathered the storm on my own, and came out just fine. By myself. All by myself. And…I was so proud.

For me, this is all happiness. Knowing that no matter what happens to me in life, I’ll always have myself. I’m happy with being ‘just’ me. I’m happy with how I’m living right now and what I’m doing. Maybe happiness is different for everyone, but sometimes I think people seek it too much in things…or in other people…or in constantly striving for that ‘something’ else that will miraculously fulfill them and make them believe they have finally reached the nirvana they sought. I’m thinking it’s a little more than that…and a little less. I’m thinking that it really does come from within…that it’s not money or cars or houses or others. It’s you, and being content with who you are. That, grasshoppers, is enough…at least for me.

Kristi xoxo

“Number 47 said to number 3, you’re the cutest jailbird I ever did see.” ~ Elvis Presley

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So, my sissie and I were yapping the other day and during our conversation about her new LPN position, she said her boss had told her something she’d been thinking about a lot regarding love. Basically, it was how we are all given only 3 true-love relationship coins in our life, and because of that, they need to be used wisely and sparingly…with great care.

Wow. My first reaction was why the hell didn’t I hear this 40 freaking years ago, and my second (which I know you are all thinking so I’ll just put it out there 🙄) was “Son of a bitch…mine are definitely spent.” 😳

Hmmmmm. Is this true? Do we really have a finite number of times we can experience true, fulfilling, ‘real’ love with another, or can we actually have that time and time again in our lives? I think back to my past relationships and question how deep and meaningful that love really was, and whether or not I had experienced it with everyone I’d been with. I adore Robert Sternberg’s Triangular Theory of Love which states there are 3 aspects (sides) to love: passion (the sexual chemistry), intimacy (the emotional connection), and commitment (the cognitive decision to stay with the person long-term, through thick and thin). If you have all 3 of these components in your relationship, Sternberg says you are experiencing ‘consummate love’ which is what we all (well…most of us) strive for with our partners. Just having a couple of the sides represent different types of love…for example, passion plus intimacy is a romantic love without any commitment to weather the storms that might come along.

So, have I experienced this ‘true’ love in every relationship I’ve had? Is this idea of consummate love something like that of Maslow’s idea of self-actualization where it’s the ‘goal’ of life, but not necessarily something that everyone can achieve? Is having ‘just’ 2 sides of the triangle mean you haven’t had ‘true’ love? Can you feel ‘true love’ without having a solid 3? Can you be satisfied with having less than the 3? If you start out with just a couple of the ‘sides’, can you build the other with conscious work and determination? What if you feel the 3 sides, but your partner doesn’t? Does that negate the ‘true love’ in your own heart? Hmmmmm…

gettyimages-153477096 — My Lord…it’s like looking into a mirror. 🙄

OK, so let’s take a look-see at my relationships (yes, this is going to take a while since Elizabeth Taylor and I are twins… 🙄). My first one was in high school when I didn’t know beans about what love really entailed. I ‘loved’ my boyfriend, but didn’t have any idea how to create something meaningful outside of high school ‘love’…writing my first name with his last name in my notebook and making out with him in my basement on ma’s nubby green 70’s love seat, praying she wouldn’t traipse down the stairs with a basket of laundry to start (by the way, she did do that at a very awkward time…cough cough…and if that doesn’t kill the mood, I don’t know what does. Thanks for that one, ma.). Does anybody in high school really have the experience and cognitive ability to love fully? I don’t think so. YES…I know high school sweethearts who have married and are still together, but I have a feeling their love matured a great deal from what it was solely in high school.

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How about Hubby 1? I was besotted with him and was definitely in love with him, but still, at 21, pretty darn immature regarding the significance of marriage. We were WAY too young and had some really stupid beliefs like we could live on love, and not money. Obviously, that worked out well. With Hubby 2 though, I had all 3 sides of love. I actually consider him my first ‘real’ marriage. We had our son, raised him together for 13 years, built a couple of houses together, moved out of state together, and really got close to each other’s families. It was a much more mature love in which both of us had divorced and wanted to work to make this marriage the one that lasted. And #3? Another true love…and one that was different than that with my son’s pa, but still all encompassing.

So, the question you are probably shouting is “Then why the hell did they fail, dumbass?” (You don’t need to cuss at me, grasshoppers…you know ma doesn’t like that 🙄). The answer? Beats the fuck out of me. More on this later.

Now, with J? I had all 3 sides…bad. I definitely had the passion and intimacy going into the relationship, and the commitment grew quickly for me. In fact, my commitment was almost too much since it held on to him during situations when I should have let go (e.g. cheating). But, to be honest, that’s what commitment is, isn’t it? Holding on? Getting through the bad? Learning from it? OK…sounds good…but does that mean abusive behavior should be ignored because of commitment? Nope. Of course not. So with J? The biggest issue I think that was inherent in our partnership was his own ‘triangle’. I know he had intimacy with me because he shared so much of his childhood trauma and war experiences with me. But passion? Obviously not. And commitment? Uh huh. Unfortunately, as I readily found out, a relationship is only as strong as it’s perceived by the lesser invested member.

Now, why did the ‘real’ ones fail? Why did they end in divorces? Why didn’t the commitment we apparently had not win out? I think a lot of it had to do with me being bipolar. Let me rephrase that…me being a not yet diagnosed, untreated bipolar.

When I was in manic phases, I was high with so much impulsivity, poor decision making, and feeling so freaking good, I didn’t think anything bad could ever touch me. So why work on negative things in a relationship when I’m having just too much fun being up? Screw that. The result? I did things and said things during these times that contributed greatly to the erosion of the marriages, and at those times, could not even begin to see what the consequences of that were. Not real proud of that. And then when I was cycling through a depression? I didn’t have the energy, desire, or even the capability of knowing what was happening in the marriage…I was too deep down into my tunnel to see anything but that terrifying darkness those of you with depression can readily relate too.

So, what if I would have had more insight (or acceptance, since I knew something was very wrong) about being mentally ill? What if I had been treated at that time with meds and counseling (as I am today)? Would that have saved these marriages? Could I ‘blame’ being bipolar for being a pretty shitty wife at times? Is that fair?

Well yes…in a way it is. I literally can’t help what my brain is like…how it operates differently from others. I can’t control the cycles on my own. I can’t prevent myself from the emotional states and related behavior of being bipolar without meds (and meds don’t prevent the states…it just works to lessen them). Or can I? Do I sometimes use my ‘brain’ disease as an excuse? Or do I have more control than I might think? And, does anyone who is mentally ill know the answers to these questions in terms of their own experiences?

What if I had gotten help when I should have growing up (wait…let me rephrase that: what if I would have gotten the right help from a professional that wasn’t sexually abusive)? Would I have had more insight into my behavior, emotionality, and sensitivity? Would my spouses have (I sound like a freaking polygamist)? Would they have understood these issues better, and worked with me to handle being bipolar in the context of our marriages?

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So, back to the 3 coins. Let’s say this is right and we have only these 3 coins to spend on love relationships. We’re given these coins at the start of pubes, and are told that’s it…you can’t have more. Would we be more careful in jumping into relationships? More understanding of what we are truly looking for instead of just ‘trying’ things out? Would we become more selective? I wonder if I would have made different decisions based on this. Even though everything was telling both of us that marriage #1 (sigh) was probably not a super idea, M and I did it anyway. Maybe I would have saved that coin instead. Using a coin on O’s dad was the best freaking coin I could have ever spent though. And #3? I think I would have spent that one too…we had 10 years that were definitely worth it and are still great friends to boot.

Now, what about J’s? Oh wow. This is a toughie. I definitely spent my last coin on him, and this relationship hurt me the most emotionally than any other one ever did. I know I was in ‘true’ love with him and thought he was my soul-mate (the only time I’ve ever said that about anyone). So, was the coin I spent worth it? Yep. If not for anything else, just the fact I was in his kids’ lives for 3 years.

Well…the problem is obviously this and what I’ve been thinking about: my 3 coins are spent. Used up. My piggy bank is empty. Does this mean, if the 3 coin idea is true, that I’m out of ‘loves’? Here’s what’s weird: I think I kind of am. Sometimes I think my heart has been broken and then glued together so many times that it’s just not up to the task of trying again. And even if it is up to the task, is my head? Will I ever invest the ‘commitment’ side into someone else again? Trust to do that? Or, can’t I help but invest that, no matter how bad of an investment it might be? (Like me investing in bitcoin, lost on that one 🙄). Maybe the banker in charge of the coins will have mercy on me…give me another one as a ‘tip’ so to speak. Hmmmmm…if that happens, I’ll tell you one thing…it’s staying in my pocket until I’m damn sure the money is going to be well spent.

Kristi xoxo

“And it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” ~ Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland) I

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So, I finished reading a book yesterday with a very disturbing theme about a father and grown daughter having a sexual relationship. I bought the book on my Kindle after being intrigued by the subject matter, especially because I teach Psychology and Human Sexuality. Katheryn Harrison published “The Kiss” in 1997 and after I had read the last page, I sat for a few minutes thinking about the characters and how they were portrayed. The mother, father and daughter were not well developed and the incidents of incest were described only briefly. I didn’t necessarily feel close to any one character, but still felt I knew them all. It was a very different type of writing but appropriate, I feel, for the subject matter.

Anyhoot, after I had pondered it for a while, I noticed that I still had 12% unread and found an interview with the author after the last page; although I had assumed this book was a novel it was actually a memoir, with the daughters voice throughout the book being the author herself.

I was gobsmacked…and I think it was for a couple of reasons. First, the bravery Kathryn had to write about a situation in which there was going to be a lot of judgement (particularly in 1997 when we were still hiding so much), and secondly, to put herself out there and make her secret known to other family, friends, students, and her older children. She has never identified the dad, so outside of the close family circle he’s anonymous, and her intention was never ‘out’ him. I also understand her ‘lesser than’ characters since the story wasn’t written for shock value or drama, but to purge a secret from her soul in the only way she had as an outlet to use, and to do it in the most honest, straightforward way she could.

After reading the authors interview about using writing to heal, I thought about this blog and my purpose behind it. In Kathryn’s interview she says a lot of things I could relate too:

“I think human beings exist poised between two terrors: being known, really known, for who they are, and never being known, and therefore never being loved for who they really are.”

“When I teach I tell my students there’s a paradox – an essential paradox – in writing memoir. The process will bring them both closer to and further away from themselves, their histories. To succeed they will have to examine material that is painful, see what they don’t want to see, especially about themselves.”

She goes on to say:

“The past is something they’ll have to admit, in the sense of both confessing and inviting in. But they’ll be able to tolerate the discomfort of admission because writing about the past demands that they objectify it, shape and manipulate the same events or transactions that once overwhelmed them.”

Now, the other day someone messaged me and said that I was always going to be known as the bipolar (‘the bipolar’? It sounds like I’m an alien and the only one out there 😳) and why would I want EVERYONE to know I was mentally ill anyway?

Well…the short answer is that I really don’t give a flying fuck how people see me (sorry ma, sis is the one who taught me all of these words…you need to speak with her and while I have your ear, ask her to help you with any issues you encounter with your new computer which I had to set up on that God awful day when I thought we were going to maim each other…just sayin’).

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Wanna know why? Because I have bipolar (and an eating disorder 😐), know I’m mentally ill, and that’s finally OK with me. Look, I hid it and hid it and hid it, until I couldn’t even see it myself for so many years. I was ashamed to think there was something seriously wrong with me…that I wasn’t the ‘perfect’ mama, daughter, sis, professor, etc. I tried so hard to be. Suppressing any thoughts I had that were telling me I needed serious help wasn’t easy, but was more acceptable. I didn’t want to be ‘the bipolar’. I wanted to be Kristi. But I wasn’t being Kristi because I had buried myself deep down inside of my mind and then acted my way through life the best I could. And when I simply couldn’t keep up my act, I’d blame whatever was convenient to blame.

I didn’t want people to know the real me…the really mentally ill me. But here’s the thing: like Kathryn said, have I ever really been loved for who I actually am? To be honest with you, I don’t know the answer to that. I do know so many people have stepped away from me. I guess they liked me being on my personal stage and smiling and laughing my way through life, before I’d go home and collapse in tears. They liked hearing about my relaxing weekend when I’d actually been cycling through a mania that I tried to hide at school, but which came out in droves on the weekend when I might stay up 16 hours straight doing whatever needed to be done, and other things that didn’t need to be done but I wanted to do anyway. Phew.

The only relationship I’ve been in since being formally diagnosed and getting help was with J. I don’t know if he got it though. I think he liked the acting Kristi too. It was almost like we reversed our dynamics in a way: when he started being good to me (and there really was a lot of good) after our 1st year together, he’d say “This is me…the real J!” And I had a hard time believing it because the only J I had known prior to this was the mentally ill J that hurt me. It was the same with him though. Once my masks fell off, I sensed that he didn’t like the authentic me. And unlike I tried to do with him in terms of his mental illnesses, he didn’t really take my bipolar, and related effects, into consideration when we would have issues. I think in the back of his mind, I was still the ‘perfect professor’ who was there TO help…not someone that sometimes NEEDED help.

A couple of the guys I’ve gone out with since then have used my diagnosis against me when it’s convenient. They’d remind me that I’m mentally ill (thanks for that tidbit guys, I have a hard time remembering it myself 🙄) and that’s probably why I got angry at them. Or sad. Or excited. Or whatever it was that could take the focus off of their part in the issue and put it solely on me.

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Also, like Kathryn states, it is so helpful for me to write out the things I need to say. Whether it’s about problems I’m having with bipolar on a particular day or other issues in my life, writing helps me sort it out, it’s cathartic (by the way, I’ve finally cycled into my summer mania which isn’t off the charts because of my mood stabilizer, but I’m getting a hell of a lot of stuff done. Need your gutters cleaned?). Seeing what I’ve written about the psychologist that abused me has helped me put that to rest more than it’s ever been in my life. Publishing that…getting it out there…and knowing I’m not alone because of the stories you sweet peeps have shared with me has helped tremendously.

Figuring out the relationships I’ve had, particularly J’s since that’s the one that haunts me the most, has helped me to see parts of it I haven’t recognized before. It’s also helped me to understand his actions better and to see how I was also a part of our conflict. I have come to understand I have to take ownership for the role I played and not just put the burden of blame solely on him. That’s humbling. But also right. Without writing some of my posts and re-reading them a few times later on, I don’t know if I would have ever gotten to this point.

And Kathryn is so right when she says that by writing and publishing publicly, you aren’t just ‘confessing’ your trials and tribulations, but you are inviting others into that fold as well. Yesterday, a student (she’s a doll) wrote me and told me how much she loved my blog and how many posts spoke to her to the point she has shared them with her mama who also benefits from them. Yeppers…it’s hard to say some of what I say, but it’s worth it when I get a message like that. It’s worth losing friendly colleagues, worth having people look at me differently, worth having some family step away from me at times when I need them the most (some have never mentioned my suicide attempt as if it was just another thing Kristi did for the hell of it…that, my grasshoppers, breaks my heart), worth being known as the ‘bipolar professor’ (I wonder if I could get a book out of that…hmmmm), worth having to examine myself under a microscope and look at what’s really there, instead of what I tricked myself into seeing for so many years.

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My son (almost 27, even though I’m still 40 🙄) doesn’t mention my blog much, and sometimes I’ll ask if he’s read any posts lately. He’ll say he has but by the way he comments I know he hasn’t. At times I think he’s ashamed of me…that he wants that perfect, step-fordy mama back where I continuously nod and say “everything’s perfect, sweetie.” And then I feel guilty, because I think to myself that maybe I should go back to that. To being fake and pretending my way through life. To posting filtered pics on FB where I am in the right pose with the right background with the right smile with the right message. But, as much as I love my son and would give my life for him in a second, I’m not going to go back to that because I simply can’t. Once the words have been released, there’s no taking them back. And as you know, peeps, I’ve released a heck of a lot of words.

I like that image of release though. Like letting go of a balloon and watching it float into the sky until it simply disappears from your sight. I can’t tell you how much better I feel by being Kristi, the gal who has bipolar. I’m here to tell you peeps, pretending is freaking exhausting. So now, I cry when I need to cry, I laugh too loud when I hear something funny, and if I’m having a really shitty day, I say to people: “I’m having a really shitty day.” I don’t use filters anymore on FB and pretend to have a picture perfect life; in fact, the last few pics I’ve posted are me after doing yard work where I’m dirty, sweaty, stinky, and have a stupid look on my face. But, it’s me. One take. And I’m OK with that.

When I’m in the great craft area of heaven one day, I hope this: that people will remember me as a good mom, good daughter, good sister, freaking amazing as hell professor (😁) who had a mental illness she made public so that others would also feel free to expose their own…get help for it…learn to manage it…and live with it in the best way they could. And you know what? If that’s all that’s said about me, that’s enough. And this blog was totally worth it.

Kristi xoxo

“Because the Darkness Hides in the Light of the Day…” ~ ‘He’s Out There’

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To the 281 million people in America who don’t have a mental illness,

I’m writing this letter to you because there’s much that needs to be said on behalf of us who have a mental illness, and I’m taking it upon myself to do so. I would have sent each one of these separately, but it would have taken me centuries longer than the time it’s been since Christ walked the earth, so here goes.

Did you know there are almost 48 million of us that suffer from mental illness in the United States alone? And if you want to look globally, there’s over 450 million. Those are huge numbers and ones I believe everyone should know.

Look, I know it’s how difficult it is to empathize with something you don’t have; there’s no way I can truly empathize with someone who suffers from heart disease since my ticker is in pretty good shape. However, I do think it’s important for y’all to have a greater understanding of ‘us’.

See, often times mental illness is looked at as a weakness in people. Something they should have either prevented in the first place, or pull themselves out of if they happen to ‘get it.’ It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? If you’re depressed, well for fuck sakes, count your blessings, get out there and do something, and for the love of all that is holy, don’t wallow. That only makes things worse.

Isn’t wallow is a funny word? It means to lie around…be immersed in something…to flounder. And the connotation is that you can get out of a ‘wallow’ so to speak: just get up out of that bed, jump out of the situation, and quit floundering. Just stop it.

I think using that word is unfair though, something that’s easy to see when we switch around the context. Have heart disease? Quit wallowing in it and run a freaking marathon. Have diabetes? Quit wallowing in it and just eat a Twinkie. Have asthma? Just breathe harder for piss sakes. Easy peasy. I’ve just solved the worlds’ ills.

It’s silly to look at it that way, isn’t it? But, as you may be saying, mental illness is ‘different.’ It’s not the same. And you’re right…it’s not. It’s not our heart or lungs…it’s our brain. When you think about your brain being the thing that isn’t working right, that’s scary as hell.

Some great advice so many of us get is to ‘just take you meds!’ Okey dokey…that’s simple enough. But let me tell you something about my meds: one of them is a mood stabilizer which I desperately need so I can function as well as I’m capable of despite being bipolar (which is one of the more serious mental illnesses along with schizophrenia). Guess what some of the side effects are for me? After I take it every morning, I feel like I have the flu for a couple of hours since nausea and muscle weakness are common. During the day, I have some dizziness so I have to be careful when I stand up and then my muscle coordination also suffers. It can cause thoughts of self-harm and suicide, so even though I feel significantly better overall in terms of my mood, I still have thoughts of razor blades I can use and drugs to overdose on. That’s scary as fuck, people. My dreams are affected as well. Last night I dreamed I was choking for what seemed like hours. When I woke up, I was gasping for breath, sweaty to where my sheets are now in the washer, and crying because I thought I was going to die of asphyxiation. If I’m lucky, I won’t get the actual serious side effects like a fatal rash that attacks your organs (which means I have to check my bod everyday for any red patches and if I see one, get to the ER as quickly as possible), aseptic meningitis, and low blood cell count. Everyday when I swallow just that one med, I’m literally taking a risk with my life.

And my other meds? One can cause high blood pressure, rapid heart beat and tremors. Do you know how scary it is to look at your leg and see it shake? But, without this one I can be so depressed I literally can’t function.

So, when we are told to ‘just take our meds’, there’s a bit more to it than swallowing an aspirin…just sayin’.

I know you mean well when you say things like “I pity you” or “I’m so sorry you have this”. Yeah…I’m sorry I have this too. But look, we don’t want your pity or sorrow. What we need is your support. We need you to ask us how we feel that day. Do we maybe need anything? Check in on us once in a while. And if we don’t feel good more than a couple of days in a row, it’s because for so many of us, our mental illness is chronic. It’s going to be with us for life…and in my case, progressively gets worse which makes me cry whenever I think about it. Did you know the life-span of people with bipolar is 9-20 years less than yours? This is actually more than if I ‘just’ smoked heavily all my life (no ma, I’ve never smoked). Facing the fact I may not be able to see my future grandbaby (son, ahem ahem) graduate from college or get married is a loss I can’t describe.

And please don’t stop asking about us because “I’m sick of hearing how down you are” or “We all have problems, you need to get over yourself” because it makes us feel like shit. Do you think we like being down so much? Being anxious so much? Being manic so much? Do you think we like waking up everyday and facing the fact our lives will never be as close to normal as possible? As much as you may get tired of listening to us, we are tired of living it. See the difference?

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Some of you are very condescending to us. I see you look at homeless people and turn away in disgust and with a sense of superiority . Did you know that so many of these guys and gals suffer from schizophrenia, PTSD, bipolar (yipee), depression and anxiety disorders, and substance abuse disorders? When you look at them with revulsion, you are making all of us feel dirty and ashamed. And since I’m so open about being bipolar and yes, mentally ill (I’m no longer hesitant to put it out there), those of you I know do 1 of 2 things: turn away from me because you fear me (why I don’t know…I won’t step on an ant when I run) or patronize me like I’m a basket case that needs to be treated like I’m 5 (I actually have an IQ of 128, so I’m not 5 in any way). Either way makes me feel different from everyone else. Walking into work and having colleagues ignore me in the hallways hurts like nothing else. Having family members step away from me because it’s just too much is like a kick to the gut.

Being blamed…used…taken advantage of is also something we face. When I was having a breakdown that almost ended my life, a student stalked me and then threatened to rape and kill me. I had the messages. The direct messages in writing. And still I got blamed for the threats, like a woman gets blamed for a rape (naughty girl, you wore a dress). But why not blame me? I’m the crazy one. I was the one who couldn’t stop crying when you questioned me…after all, I had attempted suicide just a couple of weeks prior. And those of you who threw me under the bus for your own agenda…because you were mad at me? I have a few scars on my leg that you are personally responsible for.

And talk about being different. I have no friends. Literally. I have my ma, my sonshine, my sissie, and my family, but I don’t have friends. There is absolutely no one I can call and say, “Hey, wanna talk?” Yes, I have acquaintances who will speak to me when I’m out and about, and my students are the best in the world who I love love love interacting with, but friends? Nope. I think I understand why. For all of my life I was different. Or, let’s use some other words to make it even more clear: strange, peculiar, at odds with others. My behavior can vary day by day…sometimes I don’t even know what I’m gonna be like when I awake. I try to cover this up the best I can so people will want to be my friend; if you look in ALL of my Jr. High and High School yearbooks you’ll see this: “To a crazy girl, blah blah blah”. Being ‘out there’ was the only way I could be accepted in some circles. But I was the one that would end up outside the radius…always on the edge.

Then, when someone new pops up in my life and I want to be their friend, I’m like a puppy. Bouncing all over the place, giving giving giving, and basically overwhelming the poor sap to where they back away.

Relationships are the same. Those of us who are mentally ill have such a tough time with these. It takes a very special partner to navigate bipolar, and so far, I haven’t hit the jackpot. I know it’s hard. REALLY hard. REALLY really hard. But if you give me a chance, I’ll be the best partner you could have. I’ll love you to death…I’ll be loyal and caring and will work my ass off to make the relationship work. And if it doesn’t? Don’t take the blame yourself. It’s all mine. At least that’s what I’ll feel like and then I’ll punish myself for it.

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So I sit at home with my best buddies…my 4 legged sweeties who give me the comfort, companionship, and attention I so desperately need. And guess what? I thank God for them everyday. When people tell me they are ‘just dogs’, I think to myself: no…they are my lifelines. Literally.

One more thing because I know I can ramble (I’m a professor…we yack for a living): please don’t think you’ll never develop a mental illness and that it can’t happen to you. You are not above it. You are not immune to it. A traumatic experience, the death of someone you cherished, an accident where there is head trauma, genetics that can show itself at anytime in your life, brain chemistry that goes awry for whatever reason…the list goes on. You could someday be the one reading this letter from the “other side” and in fact, 25% of people will suffer a mental illness sometime in their life. It may not be chronic, but it’s going to impact you more then you could ever have imagined.

But don’t worry. I’ll be there for you. I’ll lend you support…a listening ear…my own story to help you come to terms with your own, and I won’t throw back to you some of the negative you threw to me. I promise you that.

Kristi xoxo

“It was time to teach them a lesson. Time to show them a thing or two.” ~ Stephen King (Carrie)

So, I was watching “Gypsy’s Revenge” the other day, and if you aren’t familiar with this case, it’s about a girl (Gypsy Rose Blanchard) who grew up with her mom who had Munchausens by Proxy syndrome and convinced everyone in their lives that Gypsy had cancer, muscular dystrophy (requiring a wheelchair), epilepsy, eating problems (a feeding tube had to be used), eye and ear problems, asthma, a limited mental capacity, etc. The list is LONG and the mom, DeeDee, was provided with tons of stuff: money, a house, services, vacations (Disney land for one), and experiences because of her ‘sick’ daughter and the weight on her shoulders because of the care she required. Now, here’s the thing: Gypsy was fine. Her mom made up these ailments for the attention and perks, and forced Gypsy, from a very young age, to go along with them. There were threats, isolation (no friends, school, limited contact with neighbors, no unsupervised computer use), and tons of manipulation that made this ‘scheme’ work for a couple of decades. Anyhoot, Gypsy had her boyfriend (a real winner 🙄) stab DeeDee so she could be away from her mom’s abuse, and to make a long story short, she was sentenced to 10 years because of the role she played in planning and then being present for the murder.

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OK. I understand why Gypsy did what she did, and I don’t think she should have been sentenced to prison. She was robbed of 20 years of her life and this abuse was physically horrible with surgeries not needed, meds that could have effects on her later in life, etc. Yes, I understand that having her boyfriend kill her mom was wrong…but I can also sympathize with her situation. Because of how sheltered she was, the amount of supervision DeeDee provided, and a lack of resources, she didn’t see any other way to escape.

But, I also believe that revenge figured into this as well. See, she could have called social services and shown them how she could walk and was actually quite smart despite her lack of schooling. Or, she could have told doctors when she was alone with them (which was rarely but did happen) or spoken to her bestie (an older neighbor girl who was permitted to talk to her).

So, here’s my question: is it OK to exact revenge on those who wronged you? And if so, how much and in what circumstances? Hmmmmm.

As I’ve written about before, I was sexually abused by a psychologist for 2 years. I wanted revenge so badly after getting out of that situation and had fantasies about what I would do! After all, an eye for an eye, right? I wanted him to feel as demeaned as I did…as broken…as ashamed. But how would I have done that? I couldn’t give him a dose of his own medicine (or arsenic per se 😲) so him ever feeling close what I did became a moot point. I guess I could have destroyed some of his property, and I’m sure that would have felt pretty good at the time; however, with my luck (and lack of any criminal know how, except underage drinking a few decades ago…sorry ma) I would have been caught and may not have been able to get a position as an educator. OK…despite all of that though, would it have helped me to do something to pay him back for what was done to me? Would it have lessened all of the pain I was feeling? Make up for what I went through with him? No. It wouldn’t have. Period.

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Take ma’s ex who was physically abusive so long. I think I speak for my sissy as well when I say I wanted someone to beat the shit out of him so he could get a taste of what he did to ma so many times. I wanted him to cry. Beg. Suffer. Understand what it’s like to be the victim for once, and not the perpetrator. Part of me thinks it would feel so fucking good to see this happen, and then part of me wonders if I’d be able to stand watching something so violent. Wouldn’t me having that done (Lord knows, I couldn’t do it with my scrawny muscles and being a shorty) put me on the same level as him? Or, is it justified?

When J cheated on me, I wanted to ‘cheat back’ just to show him how horrible it feels to have a partner do that. However, I came to understand that his ‘love’ for me wasn’t really there or he wouldn’t have felt a need to emotionally/sexually bond with another. I’m a big believer you can only truly love one person at a time, and if there’s another person in the mix, you might just be an infatuation, need, or outlet for narcissism, etc. He obviously truly loved this other woman, so I had to have been something else to him. Why didn’t I revenge cheat despite the fact it wouldn’t have hurt him? Because I would have felt degraded…humiliated…ashamed. Look, I’m one of these old-fashioned gals (yes, I’m old, and I will never ever say something like “I’m 53 years young”…that bugs me to no end 🙄) who will not ever be with someone I’m not in love with. Period. To revenge cheat destroys that ‘value’ if you will, and the consequences to myself would have been just as horrible as J’s cheating in the first place.

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Now, what about so-called little things? Yes, I have sought revenge. I have wanted to pay people back for hurt, embarrassment, rejection, what have you. So, in the case of J, I took my anger of his cheating out on him for a couple of years. I know I was nasty at times…shrewish. I know I said things that were completely inappropriate to the situation we were in at any given moment, and I’m ashamed of so many of them. I also know that what I preach about forgiveness isn’t always what I practice. He did apologize numerous times, but I had to have a release for my justified emotions…and that’s the way I chose to do it. The thing was that every time I was horrible to him, I would say to myself: “For fuck sakes, he deserves it! He hurt you worse!” And yes, he did. But did that really justify my behavior continuing for so long…or even starting in the first place? Hmmmmm. And then the consequence? We never moved forward in the healthy way we said we would since I simply couldn’t get all of my anger out despite his much better behavior. Or to be more honest with myself, I didn’t choose to quit feeding my anger.

Sometimes, I take revenge out on myself, and I think so many of us do that, particularly those of us who are mentally ill and have skewed emotional reactions anyway. After J broke up with me, I punished myself for a long while. I blamed myself. I put myself through a lot of personal torment since I knew what I had done was unnecessary. I kept asking myself: “If I wouldn’t have been so angry and revengeful, would we have stayed together and built something healthy?” I don’t know the answer to that. How about this one: would he still have cheated? Hmmm. Maybe…maybe not. After all, he cheated after I had treated him like gold the first time around. So really, I was punishing myself for everything that happened, even the things that weren’t singularly my fault.

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I’m ruthless when it comes to my own behavior and words. I ruminate over things I say and do, and punish myself much more harshly than I would punish another who did the same to me. Why is that? Why are our own expectations of behavior so much more stringent than what we expect from others? Why do so many of us hold ourselves to higher standards? Why do we settle for ‘less’ when we are telling ourselves to do ‘more’?

Having bipolar makes all of this even more difficult for me. One of the effects of cycle changes, mixed mood episodes or being manic is irritability; it’s just one more of the wonderful symptoms I experience. This irritability can quickly escalate into anger (or for some, even rage) and since those of us who are bipolar have issues with impulsivity and a greater lack of control over emotional expression, this escalation can be very difficult to contain. There’s also side-effects from some mood stabilizers, like anger, anxiety and impulsiveness that can contribute even more to this. 😬

original-3972115-1 — The Anger Iceberg was developed by John and Julie Gottman of the Gottman Institute.

And here’s the thing with anger…often times when you express an emotion (anger is considered a secondary emotion since there’s usually another emotional catalyst beneath it such as frustration) it amplifies the emotion. So, once anger is being ‘let out’, it can intensify quickly. I think everyone has experienced that in their life at one time or another: what starts out as a molehill quickly becomes a mountain.

You know, I’ve done really shitty things in my life and have hurt a lot of people. Do I want those people to exact revenge on me? Would that help me feel less guilty because I’d feel like I paid the price for my sins? Or would it increase my feelings of remorse and shame and cause me to ruminate even more? Would this revenge ensure I would take away lessons from the mistakes I’ve made…or have I already done that by changing my ‘bad’ behavior and moving forward the best I can? Do those I hurt have a right to punish me? Hmmmmm…

No matter what the answers are to these questions, I believe wanting revenge is a pretty natural part of being human. None of us want to feel like we were used or betrayed, and matters like domestic violence can never be justified. No wonder we want to take all the negatives that are a consequence of these things and put them on the one who caused them in the first place. But really, who would it help in the long run? Beating ma’s ex wouldn’t lessen the pain she endured for so long. It would only keep R in the forefront of our lives (since no revenge against him could ever be enough) and that’s something ma doesn’t need. I think that really, the best revenge comes in moving forward, being happy, learning a lesson, and letting go of the hurt. That’s what helps us, grasshoppers…and it’s something we should all try to do more.

Kristi xoxo

“You could get used to anything if you had to. She knew that now.” ~ Stephen King (The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon)

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So, I was talking to a guy from high school and we were getting close when we had a couple of arguments, which ended in him breaking things off. Later, he messaged me and said it was my fault since I have so many issues I won’t face, but that he got a message from another gal (DD boobs…he included that information to make me feel bad about my own physique which isn’t quite as big as this 😐), who is also bipolar (what’s the chance since only about 2.8% of the population has the actual diagnosis as determined by a professional), and miraculously issue free and ‘normal’. Okey dokey. Good to know that a well endowed woman with a serious mental illness is fine and dandy. Kudos to her. 😳

Now, are you fucking kidding me? I DON’T face my issues? Don’t fess up that I have things going on because of being bipolar as well as experiences I have had? Then what, in hells name, am I writing about? OMG (please say that in a Valley Girl voice). I fess up to everything, including a lot of things that aren’t even my fault, per se. My goodness… I’ve taken blame for the whole shebang of anything that’s ever happened to me in this world. Yeesh. (Note, I don’t take blame for this pandemic and I had nothing to do with the quarantine. I’m an extrovert…quarantines are very difficult for us. Just sayin’).

Anyhoot, these last 8 months of being partner free has shown me there are actually a lot of advantages to being single, and I have come to realize that being alone and healthy is so much better than being with someone and unhealthy. I wish I would have had this epiphany earlier in life.

Let me tell you, even the little advantages living single has are pretty peachy: like putting something down and having it there waiting for me in the same place when I need it again. Unless of course, I put something down and forget where the damn thing is because my memory sucks balls.

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I LOVE filling my fridge with what I want! I get to go down the aisles of the grocery store (Aldi’s…it rocks) and toss in anything and everything that sounds good to me. Then, when I get home and unload, with Dottie and Eddie looking on expectantly for more goodies, no one is there to say “Why are you buying so much of this? Why in the heck did you get that stuff again?” “We’re having chicken again this week?” (Yes, we are having chicken ‘again’ because it’s the only thing I know how to make half way decently). I get any food I want, and then eat what I feel like while watching bad auditions on America’s Got Talent, without worrying if I have a piece of spinach caught in my front teeth (which is common…my teeth are magnets for globs)…it’s bliss.

Showering is a biggie too: my shampoos and conditioners and face washes and body gels and shaving cream, etc. are all organized in my caddy and they stay that way. Plus, when I pick up my favorite conditioner and squeeze, it’s not empty. And my razor? The blade is how I left it…it’s not been used on a scratchy beard and neck which causes it to be dull and therefore shreds my already old lady legs. That, my dear peeps, is absolutely wonderful.

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If I want to start a load of laundry at midnight…OK. If I want to stack up my dishes until after I finish my macrame project (I’m on a macrame kick…my entire house is being decorated with cotton cording and no one is rolling their eyes), I will. If I want to wash my windows, again, OK…no one is bitching about how I already did it 3 years ago and therefore, they don’t want to help. If I want to vacuum and admire the blob of hair, fur, dust, yarn bits, and beads while emptying my shark, I will without someone saying how gross that is. If I set my mower blade too low and cut my grass to within an inch of it’s life so I don’t have my pooches dragging in so much, by golly, I’ll be naughty and do it. The yard is all mine….muahahaha. If I want the dogs on the couch and cuddled up next to me, there’s no one looking at them jealously and telling me dogs belong on the floor (well Mister, you belong out the door, so there). If I want to skip the deodorant, not wash my hair everyday, postpone the shaving for another week, and wear a blue nightie with red Crocs at night, I can. And hells bells, if I want to watch 90 Day Fiance’ and yell advice to the screen (because we all know what a relationship expert I am 🙄), I’ll do it. Like the song says, little things mean a lot, peeps.

In terms of biggies, I think one of the best things I’m experiencing, which is a very different feeling for me, is that I’m no longer walking on eggs. Look, it’s no secret in the study of marriage and family (which my M.S. is in…shutty the mouthy) that men tend to set the emotional tone in a relationship, good or bad (there are exceptions of course, but overall this holds true). Think about it: a dad has a bad day at work and mama says: “Kids…keep it down tonight, your dad has had a bad day at work.” But when mama has a bad day, who the fuck cares just so dinner is on the table, the laundry is done, and bills have been paid (P.S. I had to take a quick break…I forgot to make my Jeep payment 🙄).

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I’ve walked on eggs for most of my life. R, the asswipe that abused my mom for so many years, made anyone and everyone in my mom’s life step lightly and carefully. The consequence of not doing so was mom getting hurt which was a far too great of risk to take. If he got upset that person was yelled at, but my mom was ultimately the physical scapegoat for his anger. I couldn’t bear to let that happen, so I learned fairly early on to smile, nod, agree, and tread as softly as I could. With Hubby 1 and 2? Not quite as bad, but still felt I was often balancing on a tightrope, and one slip could mean the end of things. Then, with Hubby 3 (shutty…one of these days I’ll make y’all a freaking chart) and J? Eggs were all over the place. Actually, landmines might be a more accurate description. The nerves this wrought showed themselves physically (I aged a LOT in 13 years…more than probably necessary and thank you Lady Clairol for your help now) as well as psychosomatically: tummy aches, tension headaches, backaches, tightness in neck and shoulders, etc. And the mind? Feeling that I couldn’t express myself…speak assertively for myself…actually be myself. And now? None of that. I never knew how much those freaking eggs affected me, until I was on firm ground again.

And talk about people pleasing. No matter how much I tried to please my exes, it was never enough. Never. I always felt like I should be giving more, doing more, and expecting less. But I now have someone else to put that energy into pleasing (besides Eddie and Dottie), and that’s me. And goodness gracious, I’m very appreciative of the spoiling 😍.

Finally, I am so relieved of not always being scrutinized in terms of having bipolar. Look, if I’m experiencing a bad day, you don’t have to bring up the fact that I’m mentally ill…I tend to remember I am. If I’m angry, sad, elated, hyper, depressed, whatever yes, I know I have bipolar; please don’t ask me if I took my meds 😬 and then tell me life would be easier if I just put more effort into it (heh? I’ll work on changing my brain physiology asap). You know, when I was married to O’s dad and was in a bad mood (hard to believe, huh?), here’s what he would say: “So, ya got PMS…right?” Wrong, buddy. Sometimes women can be in bad moods because of things other than Aunt Flow visiting. Like, for example, you missing a dinner it took me an hour to make because you were working on a car and forgot there was a phone 3 feet from your face (just pulled that out of my ass 🙄). Yes, bipolar has lots of fun symptoms, but I’m not ‘just’ bipolar. I’m actually so much more than that, and not having it thrown in my face at convenient times (like, when someone doesn’t want to take responsibility for their own actions), is relieving. Truly.

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You know, I used to be anxious about ‘being’ single because of a divorce/break-up, but over the last few months I’ve learned how freeing it really is. I’m now making a conscious choice to stay single for a time (or forever knowing the prospects out there) because I’m finally living life on my terms….in my own way. I’m discovering more and more about myself everyday, and am liking what I see. I’m happy. Strong. Capable. Content. Proud. And grasshoppers, if that’s not an advantage to living alone, I don’t know what is.

Kristi xoxo

“It’s a Poor Sort of Memory that Only Works Backwards.” ~ Lewis Carroll:

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So, this isn’t the post I was going to write today…I had another one mapped out (and it’s a goodie 😳) but I’m putting that off a day or two because I need to process what I’m feeling right now. I hope you don’t mind.

Today I was at the college for a couple of hours to box up my office since I’m moving to another location in the building; there’s going to be construction where I currently am. I’ve been in my office for 17 years and I was surprised at how emotional it was to pack it all up.

I have so many letters, cards, drawings, and gifts from students over the last 20+ years and getting them out and looking at them again brought back so many memories. I had letters from students telling me how much I had helped them when they were facing difficulty, cards saying ‘Thanks’ for all I did teaching our class, drawings of llamas and my Dottie and name designs that hung on my walls, and lots of gifts like mugs, stuffed llamas (see a pattern here?), books, etc. It really delighted me to know these wonderful young people took the time to say and give these things to me. I could picture each one of them in my head, and laugh at the memories I shared with them. I’m somewhat known for often having nicknames for people and I was smiling, with tears running down my face, thinking of the special things I called them (for example, one of my sweeties is my “money beet”…if you don’t get this, watch The Office).

I try very hard in my classes to give a lot to my students…I don’t ‘read the textbook’ to them like a couple of professors I had in college did (yes, they had college even way back then…it was a one room schoolhouse 🙄), but create special lectures and expand on the curriculum content. I also ask my students what they’re interested in and try to make a pertinent lecture based on their suggestions. But here’s the thing: no matter how much I give in my classes, I get so much more. I love my students…and I don’t say love unless I mean it. They are my family and have enriched my life more than I can say.

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Then, as I was cleaning out some drawers I haven’t touched for years, I came across a ton (not quite a ‘ton’ but damn close) of pics that I’ve decorated my office with over the years. I found so many of Hubby 2 and my boy, O, when he was a little guy. Hubby and I were shown in restaurants, on our front porch, on outings with O, and posing with pets we had had over the years. I cried as I looked at these, because we did have such a terrific life together. It was very much a ‘Leave it to Beaver’ type of situation and memories of it are so good.

When I look back at the end of our marriage, I know it could have been saved. No doubt. I also know I was wasn’t on meds for my bipolar, and that surely played a role in it’s demise. Handling my ups and downs couldn’t have easy for this man who had no other experience with mental illness and I’m not proud of how I behaved during manic times. It’s so hard not to have regrets and guilt, and I know that right now my ma is saying – “Kristi, you can’t go back…you did the best you could.” Well, the thing is: no I didn’t. Doing the ‘best I could’ would have been breaking down my denial that anything serious was wrong with me…being honest with our family doctor when he’d ask how I was…and getting my butt to a psychologist for a proper diagnosis with treatment. And because of all of that, my guilt remains.

Unearthing pics of Hubby 3 was difficult too (I know, I know…they are SO hard to keep track of…I promise not to add another to the freaking mix to help y’all out). Yes, we are still really good friends and talk daily. He’s going through some rough times and I’m here for him just like he’s been there for me. I found pics of us in Chicago where we loved to spend weekends, pics of us at mountain bike races with mud all over our arms and legs, pics of us at different zoos and in museums, and yes, all of these were rough to go through. Hubby and I had some tough times (which I’ve written about and I’m sure you’ve read my sweet, loyal peeps) but the good times we had outweighed those significantly. He was so much fun and no one has ever made me laugh like he can. Hubby is the one person (outside of ma, sis, and O) who I can tell things to and never ever have them used against me. He has always accepted me for who I am and I do the same with him.

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Did my bipolar affect our marriage too? Is that why it ended? Well… I can definitely say a resounding ‘yes’ to the first question: bipolar affects every part of my life, and I know I was a bit much at times when I was ‘high’ (that’s an understatement if I ever heard one and no ma, I don’t do drugs; please don’t run out and get a drug testing kit for me to prove it to you 🙄). But when I was in a depression, it was even tougher for him. I’d suddenly not want to do things with him and was much more distant emotionally which brought back memories of neglect when he was young. I’m sorry I put him through those ups and downs that he didn’t have an explanation for.

Then I found my pics of J. One of them was framed and had hung on my wall for 3 years; O (professional photographer) took it of us at a wedding we attended and we are facing each other, laughing, and looking into each others eyes. We both look so happy and in love. Seeing pics of J brings back bad memories…it’s no secret our relationship was tumultuous, but we had so many great times too. I think out of all my ‘men’, J understood me the most. Him having Borderline Personality Disorder (undiagnosed at the time) and PTSD helped him to understand my behavior better, and I tried to do the same with his. Our biggest problem was each of us not getting the help we both desperately needed to get ourselves stable and our behavior under control . We were 2 mentally ill people trying to have a ‘normal’ relationship, while doing our best to ignore our diagnoses and their subsequent behaviors. It’s funny that I’m so much better now…so much more ‘even’ because of my mood stabilizers, yet it came too late. Had I recognized and then insisted we both get the medical/psychological care we seriously needed, I believe our relationship would have had an excellent chance. Yes, I still think of him everyday. And yes, I miss his kids so much I ache.

I’ve talked about guilt before in this blog…as well as regrets, and I see, through all I found today, how much I have failed so many people in my life.

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You know, there were students I could have done a lot more for…students in my classes who may have had pain I didn’t recognize or needed help I didn’t spot. I could have talked more to individual students. Listened more. Asked them more. I have a feeling my students who read this are saying: “Shut Up! You were great!” But sweeties, I could have been better…and hope to be as I continue in my career.

And why didn’t I get help sooner and maybe have my life on a different trajectory with fewer regrets and losses regarding my personal relationships? Why didn’t I do this for my marriages? For my family? For myself? Yes, the psychologist that sexually abused me for a couple of years (that fucker…sorry ma) did a number on me trusting any other therapist or counselor, but I could have worked harder at letting someone in. I could have put the needs of the people in my life over my fear of being used again. But, I didn’t. Am I’m so sorry for that. I’m especially sorry for those that were hurt by my inaction and mental illness…but to be honest, I’m sorry for me too.

Memories are a funny thing. They can make us laugh and cry…surprise us and anger us…and they can teach us lessons we take with us as we move ahead in our lives. I know I can’t go back and fix all the wrongs I’ve done and make it up to the people I’ve hurt. But I can use those memories to make me a more loving, empathic, understanding person that tries her best again and again. And that, grasshoppers, is what I intend to do.

Kristi xoxo

If it Ain’t One Thing, it’s Another.

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So, no matter how much I learn and experience with bipolar, there’s always something else waiting to catch me off guard; it makes me realize how much this mental illness affects so many areas of my life besides ‘just’ mood.

I’m reading a classic book called: “An Unquiet Mind” by Kay Redfield Jamison and this is my 2nd time through it. The first time I read it I was so moved by the story of Kay and the development and her life with bipolar, but this time I’m really slowing down and taking it in. I started dog-earing pages (it’s OK…I own the book) that were pertinent to my own experiences but after a while, the book got so thick with these bent corners, I stopped doing it because every page spoke to me on such a personal level.

We all know the classic symptoms of bipolar, right? Manic highs, depressive lows, and all of the goodies that go along with these (please take a look-see at this…it took me 20 minutes to get it right 🙄):

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Anyhoot, there are so many other issues that go along with having bipolar as well and most people don’t realize how severe they can be. Reading memoirs and other material helps me remember I’m not alone in experiencing these problems and that’s a comfort to me.

Memory is a biggie. When I’m manic, I don’t have time to remember. Hello! I’m so freaking busy painting, sewing, mowing, running, hiking, shopping (!), cleaning, yacking and yacking and yacking, and moving around from task to task with my mind speeding along so fast, how in the world is my brain supposed to retain anything? When I was manic last summer, I painted almost every single piece of furniture I own along with 3 rooms, but I barely remember doing it! Seriously! When I’m manic, I lose chunks of time. Everyday last summer I walked a minimum of 8-10 miles and have no memory of the majority of these jaunts and the routes I took. You know, it’s scary when your mind loses time like this. It’s like it’s going on auto-pilot and you are caught up in the vortex. I’ve done crafts/art when I’m manic, and after I cycle back down, I have no idea how to do what I’ve already created. It’s spooky.

I have a lot of trouble talking as well (I know, I know…that’s extremely hard to imagine and ma, I know you’re rolling your eyes right now) when I’m manic, I talk so loud and fast that it’s overwhelming for people to listen, but frustrating for me. I’ll hear “slow down” or “hold on…I can’t keep up” but I am simply unable to do that. I have so much to say with my mouth already not keeping up with my brain that telling me to slow down is like telling a wild horse ‘whoa’ before he’s been ‘broken.’ (Actually there is a term for manic speech called pressured speech).

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Sometimes I’ll even lose words. I have so much to get out but my mind is racing forward so fast that I can’t find the words I want to use. I’ve even made up some to compensate. And my ideas? Well hells bells, I can basically invent anything…figure out the mysteries of the universe…and brainstorm solutions to any of the world’s ills. If there’s no one to listen to this grandiosity? That’s OK…I’ll just talk out loud to myself (or Eddie and Dottie who think I’m absolutely brilliant).

Now, the flip side is this: when I’m in a depression (and by the way, women with bipolar have more depression than men) I don’t want to talk, and actually having a conversation can be exhausting. I think this can be explained two-fold…my mind is slowed down so much there’s not much in there but feelings of darkness, and I’m so fatigued mentally (and physically), it’s just too much effort to express much of anything.

This is tough. I know when I’m cycling through a depression, ‘keeping busy’ and doing stuff I normally like would be a good idea. But the kicker is this: I don’t like to do anything when I’m down. What I normally love is pushed aside. Running is known to help mood (any cardiovascular exercise) but I’ll get my shoes laced up and my tights on, but will either balk at going outside to start, or will stop after a block and walk home, panicky, until I get through the safety of my door again. Even reading isn’t pleasurable to me during these times. I might start 5 books, read a few pages, and then just put it down with no interest whatsoever. And art? Nope. No original ideas out all…or strength to even get supplies out and ready to use.

So then guilt takes over, and those of us with bipolar have tons of it. People will say: “Take a walk!” “Get out and about!” “Paint!” but I can’t. Literally, physically, mentally I can’t. And then I feel guilty that the advice I’m given is impossible to do, or because I don’t have the ability to will myself back up to a better mood again.

Self-esteem is an issue too. When I’m manic, oh my gosh…I can conquer the world! I have so much confidence in everything I do and I know I’m the most interesting, engaging, wonderful, awesome person ever, doing stuff no one else is doing (right…no one else walks or runs everyday… 🙄)! I can do anything and when someone asks me for something? The answer is YES before they can even finish their sentence. And by golly, I get it done everytime…usually right away.

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Then the darkness comes in and I feel like shit about myself. No confidence, hating what I see in the mirror, shying away from any requests because I feel like I’ll fuck them up if I even have the energy to do them (sorry ma, but that’s the only way I can describe it.) If I’ve made a commitment during a manic phase and then am depressed when I need to follow through, I feel tons of guilt if I can’t and I know it’s hard for others to understand this. “Hey, you promised a couple of months ago you’d do this.” Yes, I realize that (well not really, because who the hell remembers), but I can’t even wash my hair today, so…there you go. And then? I feel even more horrible about myself than ever.

Fear is another big concern. I have fairly ‘normal times’ (which aren’t really ‘normal’ per se…just not full hypomania or full depression) but know another cycle will eventually rear it’s ugly head. I’m ecstatic when it’s mania…actually, it’s fun in a way. To have that much energy is intoxicating, but will I be able to reign it in when I teach…interact with students…interact with my colleagues? Or, maybe depression is what I’ll cycle into. Will I have the ability to teach…to not cry at school…to even get up to start my day? It’s despairing to have this fear and dread be a part of your everyday existence.

These doubts and the inability to handle things ‘normally’ when I’m cycling forces me to wear masks. As much as I’m trying to be genuine and authentic, my life compels me to put some of those masks back on so I can function as expected. As we all now know from wearing real face masks for the last 6 months, these proverbial masks are just as constricting and uncomfortable, but we can’t necessarily rip them off when they become too much.

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Another fear is what the mania and depression do to me physically. Regardless of what mood I’ve cycled into, I often have stomach issues (I do have a pesky ulcer that tends to come back periodically) and diarrhea (so much fun 😐) is common for me as is a constant feeling of ‘ick’ in my belly (I think the medical term nausea is more often used, but ‘ick’ describes it better for me). Whether I’m manic or depressed, I get a racing heart at times (which is scary as hell) and hyperventilate, or I’ll break out in a sweat that soaks my entire bod. Headaches are common and muscles aches happen too. The physical side of bipolar is the least talked about (at least in my experience) but these can be just as scary as the moods. Sometimes even more so.

I also find myself having a lack of affect (emotional expression) or inappropriate affect (to say the least). When I’m manic, it’s almost impossible for me to cry or show any negative feelings, so I’ll hear something tragic, but can’t react with the right empathy. I know it’s sad and I feel bad about it…but my brain is ‘on fire’ (to borrow that term from Susannah Cahalan’s memoir) and it can’t slow down to really process the situation. On the flip side? When I’m down, everything gets to me. Ma will tell me something ‘good’ and I’ll start to bawl. I mean really sob like it’s the end of the world. Watching a movie during this time is hellish at best, because even my normally fave comedies like “What About Bob?” make me weep because I read so much angst in the characters. Poor Bob, he’s so freaking lonely and misunderstood.

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Then, there’s a constant feeling of disappointment. Last summer I was manic and happy and energetic and the world was a wonderful place with rainbows and sunshine. I’m not there right now. I’m still cycling through a depression that’s lifting somewhat, but still hanging on (like a sloth on a freaking tree). I want to be up again…I’m so so sick of being down still. This depression has held of for over 7 months now, and I want it over. I want to feel better. I want to be happy again. I was hoping and praying and wishing spring would magically take this away, and it’s chipping at it piece by piece, but I’m not there yet. I don’t want a full-blown manic phase, but getting rid of this dark tunnel would be just ducky.

Medications help these moods, but only to an extent. Mood stabilizers can lessen the severity of the cycles, but doesn’t ‘treat’ them to where they disappear. It’s like using Tylenol for a migraine. It might lessen the pain so it’s a bit more bearable, but some (often a lot) pain still exists. In fact, that’s another disappointment I think all people with mental illness experience: we want our meds to be the fairy godmother that waves her magic wand and rids of us of our sickness. But as we all know, there ain’t too many of those around. And then when people say: “Are you taking your meds?” when you’re experiencing these ups and downs, we feel guilt again when they aren’t working perfectly.

Another thing I have to deal with is anger and whether I’ll be able to reign it in or not. Whether I’m up or down, there’s an anger boiling inside of me all of the time and it’s such an unwelcome ‘guest’ and I want to kick it out the door and turn the key. Little things can set me off, and this anger can be so so disproportionate to the trigger. It’s horrifying when this explodes. I can hear myself saying terrible things or acting hatefully and it’s like I’m watching someone else doing it. I want it to stop…but once again, the control is in the part of the bipolar brain I don’t have much access too.

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Probably the most terrifying aspect is the recurring thoughts of suicide. Yes, when you are in a depression, suicidal thoughts often abound for so many. But I have them during manic stages too when my impulsivity and inability to really think about the consequences of my actions take over. If I’m upset during mania, my bipolar brain will think: “Oh…you’d be sorry if I killed myself and everyone will be at my funeral!” Maybe that’s why 20-60% of people with bipolar will attempt suicide and up to 19% will succeed. It’s never fully out of our minds.

And talk about understanding…how in the hell do you tell people about these reactions and moods and guilt and self-esteem and physical issues when you really can’t grasp them yourself? How do you apologize for things you blurted out when manic? Promises not kept? Emotional reactions that were often flippant? Explosions of fury? Look, it’s harder than fuck when your mind takes you over as opposed to you being able to control it yourself and I think that’s the hardest thing for others to understand who don’t have a mood disorder. It’s like we’re just the train car following where ever the engine want to take us. We don’t have the brakes. The ability to take another route. The wherewithal to slow down or speed up. And when we try to apologize, how can it ever be enough? And then BINGO, here’s comes the guilt and the tummy aches and the lowered self-esteem, and life continues in this bipolar way.

You know, having insight into this disorder is difficult enough, and just when you think you have a handle on it, BAM! …something else pops up. It really helps to read books and articles about other peoples struggles, because it’s normalizes this abnormal world for me. It’s lets me know I’m not alone. and others are in the same boat. And peeps, that’s what I hope I do for you. Let you know you aren’t alone in any struggles you have, and that you’re in good company always. ❤

Kristi xoxo

“The most important things are the hardest things to say.” ~ Stephen King (The Body)

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So, need is a funny word. Like ‘love’ or ‘friend’, it can mean so many different things to different people. Go shopping (after social distancing, of course) and listen to what is being said about all of the products we are inundated with: “Oh my God…I gotta have that!” “OOOOO…this new shampoo is supposed to be great! I need to get it now!” “Wow…that’s the exact shirt I’ve been needing!”

Actually, need is so different than want, yet we often forget that. Do we really need another shampoo when we have 12 full bottles in the shower? Do we really need a new shirt when we have 10 others we haven’t worn yet? Hey, I’m just as guilty as anyone. Put me on amazon, and I will order something…anything…because getting that brown box on my step with the shiny tape is just so damn exciting.

But let’s face it, we don’t need half of what we have. And often, we don’t even want it a few days later. It’s just something else cluttering up our house that will wind up in a donation box sooner or later.

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Clutter. I know all about that too. Not because of my house since it’s fastidiously clean, but because of my mind. Clutter is such a great term to describe the emotions and thoughts that circle around it every day thanks to being bipolar (😬). Sometimes it’s hard to sort out the clutter; it becomes so overwhelming I simply don’t know where to start. That was me yesterday. My clutter was strewn all over the place and I needed someone to help me sort it out.

I miss O moving to his own place (even though I’m so proud of him for being able to make this leap while still running a business in these difficult times), I’ve been working on my house to get it more ‘me’ and moving furniture around until it’s just right. I’m doing a deep cleaning and a good cull, while also getting used to the quiet which frankly is a bit tough. Then I have school to deal with during this pandemic…I missed my students and seeing them graduate this spring and I still don’t know what the Fall will look like in terms of my classes.

And then I have me. Lonely old (shutty the mouthy 😳) me. I had to run to the store yesterday and I interacted with the cashier (barely, which was probably a good thing since her face mask looked to have some kind of demon on it and she had the personality of a turnip). I talked to ma for about 10 minutes and texted O a few times, and that was it. I’m used to talking to 60+ students a day, my colleagues, and living with a noisy son who always had something going on. This quiet is really a big change for me.

See, yesterday I had a need. A real need. I needed to vent to someone so I could process some of these feelings I have being alone. I guess I just needed a virtual hug. Needed it, not just wanted it, because I was also feeling a bit lonely too.

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So, Edward gave me one (one of my sweet dogs who happens to be a damn good hugger). But as much as I love his affection (while Dottie usually looks on with disgust but decided to smile for the camera since she’s a diva), I needed a real person and reached out to a ‘friend’ who said they had had a bad day too. We messaged back and forth for a bit and I poured a lot out to him…it felt good to have someone just listen. His responses though were quite brief such as “It’ll get better.” Well, duh. Of course it will. However, it wasn’t better then, and I “needed” someone to just be there to commiserate with me, or at least validate that what I’m feeling is OK. It’s like when I got my appendix out a few years ago (on April fools day, no less). I got home and couldn’t bend which is something you don’t appreciate doing until you can’t. It was horrible trying to contort myself into a chair or my bed and realized I couldn’t do it without feeling like I was going to break in half, so I needed Hubby 3 (🙄) to help. I knew I would heal, but at the time of the pain, that wasn’t much comfort to me (although wine helped…and believe me, it was NEEDED at that time).

Anyhoot, as I was saying how sorry I was for my friend’s day, he said he just didn’t have the wherewithal to chat with me right then, so we stopped. And the problem was that I still needed him.

Yes, I know he had a bad day too and I expressed my concern over his issues and listened to what he needed to say. If he would have asked me to do anything for him in this situation, of course I would have (hello…I’m a freaking empath). It’s almost like when I was a young parent: I’d be running on 2 hours of sleep for 3 straight nights when O was sick, but if he needed something after I nodded off, I got up and did it. He NEEDED me. It was as simple as that.

Maybe I didn’t express how much I needed my friend’s support yesterday (even though I said “I need your support this afternoon”), but it’s very hard for me to really do that. I feel guilty when I ‘need’ something from someone…when I ask for it. I feel selfish for needing them to ‘give’ me their time, their energy. I sometimes feel like if they give me an hour, I have to give them 2…I never want to be the one that takes more.

Or, maybe it was difficult for him to understand my situation yesterday, or relate to it since his is so different. I think it’s also baffling for others to understand that when you have bipolar, a seemingly ‘little’ issue is actually a pretty big one because of our emotional constitution and constant rumination.

Hmmmmm…do we ever ask ourselves what we truly need from a partner? Not what we want…but what we need, and what we think of as being essential to our well being. I think about this a lot because in my Marriage and Family classes we talk extensively about mate selection…what you want, what you need, what are deal breakers, etc. And for me, I need someone to just listen. To be there. To say “Hey, I understand this is a tough time…what can I do to help?”

I think it’s because when someone fulfills this need, it makes me feel special…like I matter to them. I feel like they see me. One time J and I were in an argument, and I yelled “See me!” to him. I was so frustrated that day and needed him to actually see the real ‘me’, not the person he wanted me to be or how much he needed me to pretend I was fine. Yesterday made me realize that my needs in a relationship have changed over the years. Decades ago, I would have said I needed someone to be a good dad…good provider (since I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom), affectionate (since I’m so touchy/feely), and a great sexual partner (😲).

Compared to other times I’ve had, yesterday was a cakewalk. But what happens when there’s something seemingly insurmountable for me to handle alone? And having bipolar makes this a very real possibility. I know I need someone I can trust to be there for me. Will be able to understand that I’ll have issues that at times may seem silly to them, but for which I’ll require their support. Their understanding. I need someone who will try to learn what they can about bipolar since it is a mental illness that’s difficult on relationships; anyone living with someone bipolar has to understand the dynamics of depression and mania. And just so you don’t think I’m a selfish cow, I don’t demand that only my needs be fulfilled in a relationship, and I’m not asking for anything I’m not willing to give back. In fact, sometimes meeting my needs is pretty easy; yesterday, an ear or a hug would have sufficed.

When everything was crashing down on me a couple of years ago, some of my students who read this blog tell me they never would have known based on my demeanor in class and talking to them in the halls. Good! I would push aside my own crap in order to fulfill the needs these awesome young people had…and happily so.

Maybe it would be a good idea to just make sure I seek what I need: someone to listen, give me affection, attention, and understanding (and don’t read this part ma, but throwing in great sex would be appreciated too 😜). But maybe these are too much for some people to handle, or too much for me to ask for in the first place. Or maybe, just maybe, I need to learn to fulfill these in myself to a great extent. I need to listen to myself, be good to myself, give myself the attention I deserve and the patience I often don’t allow myself to have. And when I think about it, this might really be a great idea. After all, I’m pretty good at helping others out…maybe it’s time to do the same for me.

Kristi xoxo