Endings Suck

Our break up happened in stages.

It started because he betrayed my trust, not just by making plans to take the girls, but when he walked away from a duty that he had promised to fulfill--a life or death one. I put a kebash on a newly added  D/s aspect to our relationship (not that Alex explored it much with me--his preference for those things were Luna. Looking back, this might have been a sign of the pending heartbreak). citing that I couldn't trust him enough to continue it at that time. His response was to kick me and the girls out. We managed to work out a temporary truce, but it was not even forty-eight hours later that he betrays my trust again by lying to me about what he wanted to do. Even giving him the benefit of the doubt, it would then be turned into him choosing Luna again, over what was best for our family unit.

Our little family was once again spread over two locations, and Alex only had a plan for seeing the girls, which boiled down to on the weekend, if he could manage it. But he kept talking about how much he loved me, so I put off starting over on my own. He would alternate between ignoring me completely and reassuring me that he did love me and cared for me. The dissonance between what he was verbally telling me and what his actions were saying tore me up--I blamed myself and came up with reasons. (If I wasn't so needy; if I hadn't lost my job and then the house--if I could still take care of him; if I was funnier; if I was thinner; if I didn't study so much; if I wasn't so broken; if I could be a Gorean like Luna.) Looking back, I can see the cycle, and how I fed into it by just accepting him playing with my emotions as just part of the situation, perhaps even as a just punishment for failing to take care of my family as a Choctaw was supposed to; as a Silverwolf was supposed to.

It came to a head the day before our 13th Anniversary. I was asking for a plan again, one to reunite our household or begin working to fix our relationship. Alex declared that he couldn't stand to live with me again. It hurt, gods did it hurt. But it was also freeing, in a way. I knew that I couldn't depend upon him to step into the provider role for me and the girls. That meant that I needed to find some way of stepping back into that role myself. I needed to be the one to provide my daughters with a home, because he didn't want to do so. He saw nothing wrong with the status quo.

So I initiated paperwork to become my own household with Division of Social Services. I knew Alex would be upset. I knew that he would be angry, because it would mean that he wasn't getting the money for the girls and would have to start paying out of his paychecks (from a job that I had gotten him the lead on, but that he later told me that I was delusional for thinking that I had anything to do with, despite screen-captures showing where I had gotten the tip to pass on to him). So I avoided telling him until the last moment possible.

It was a week after I had to tell him, that he came up with the idea to fraud the state. It escalated quickly as I dug in my heels and refused to break the law for him. In the course of that evening, he attacked me three times. That was back in April. I still have complications from my injuries.

Alex married Luna May 14th. They didn't wait to have the girls there, or to prepare them for the change in status of the woman who could barely stand their presence. Thousands of ways to communicate information, and they choose to spring the idea on me at court the other day.

When Alex and I opened our relationship, we had only a few rules: 1) our relationship came first; 2) everyone has to ask permission; 3) everyone had to keep clean papers; 4) the girls did not get involved--we weren't going to have a bunch of Aunts/Uncles floating in and out of their lives. His marriage to Luna was the final nail in the coffin of my officially-dead-but-still-there hope/expectation that we'd get back together after Luna leaves (as she has every commitment in the past). I didn't even know that I had it until it was destroyed.

It hurts. Oh, Goddess, how it hurts.

I Am Not Invisible

I was a rather well-read child who was as captivated by nonfiction as I was fiction. I was seven when a teacher decided that as a punishment I would have to read a page from the dictionary. That had a latent manifest effect of me putting Webster on my reading list for the year. Best birthday gift that my grandmother ever gave was both a Webster and an Oxford--Grandma Liz may have teased me about it, but holy fuck if the woman did not simply understand me.

I was eight the first time I read my first Stephen King book: Firestarter. That was also the year that I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. That hospitalization was perhaps the scariest period of my young life. All I really knew was Mom said that we were going to a special park, but instead we went to big brick building that smelled like the Jefferson City Walls. The doors slammed behind us as we went deeper inward and the windows disappeared. We went down a green hall that had a flickering light. We went through a final set where we were met by a man who had to have been related to the Hulk (couldn't have been him as he was a normal white guy, not green) and he took the bag that Mom had been carrying before making her sign some paperwork. That is when my mother told me that they (her and my siblings) had to go, but that I was staying. Then they left.

We as a society have a tendency to ignore both children and the mentally ill. We talk about them but rarely to them. We assume that because they are young that they cannot understand--and the concept that children should have a right to informed consent is relatively new...and primarily reserved for physical illnesses.

They didn't explain why I was there or how long I would be. They didn't explain why they needed my blood or why they wanted me to take the pills. I shared a room for the first few days, but one day in the course getting my blood drawn yet again, my roommate was packed and gone with no explanation to where or why. And through it all was the smell of the place: stale and stinky like the place where they kept Daddy. There was no going outside and there was no books beyond the boring kids books. Regardless of whatever rules you think they should have followed, no one explained me what the fuck was going on beyond the phrase "we're trying to make you better" with no explanation as to what that meant.

With no distractions and no explanation, my little storyteller and overly informed self started coming up with my own theories as to what was going on. Mom had made no secret that she couldn't handle me--or rather she didn't pay attention to the kid curled up with a book in the corner when she talked to my grandmother or on the phone to various people and said kid had ears. Everyone fights with their siblings, though, and why would I want to read a book whose chapters were barely a flip of a page with boring stories when there were things like Beowulf or The Tell-Tale Heart or The Lost Years of Merlin--and the principal was stupid for thinking that calling Mom would force me to read a stupid book still mostly pictures. In hindsight, maybe calling her a bitch on top of it was a bit disrespectful, but surely the letter of apology that Grandma made me write was an acceptable sign of contrition. I had already known that they can lock you up and throw away the key for practically nothing--they had done it to Daddy and this place smelled like that one did. Then again, I had just finished Firestarter before Mom brought me here and all the staff would tell me is that they were going to make me better. Was this some kind of governmental research facility where they took in people for experimentation? I hadn't died yet from the pills they were giving me--did that mean that I was part of the control group or that the drugs were slow acting? Then again, I was not unaware of what the other kids called me on the playground and Mom had said once that it was unnatural how much I read, so maybe I really was a freak and "better" would be like the other kids. And wasn't that a wistful thought! Other kids seemed so happy and they didn't seem to have trouble talking to each other or to adults. Other kids didn't seem to boil uncontrollably with unexpected rage or not be able to sleep for days on end. What if they couldn't make me "better"? Would I be stuck in there forever and never see Grandma again or Daddy or Tigger or hell, even at that point snotty PJ or too quiet Jonny or the baby Jessica?

Thank God for West. West was the teenager whose room was directly across the hall from mine. Looking back now, he couldn't have been more than fourteen, but he was the one who explained that I wasn't in a prison or a government research facility--I was in a hospital in the mental ward. He was the one who finally got the vitals nurse to tell me my diagnosis and the name of the medication, both of which he recognized because he was Bipolar being treated with lithium as well. He was the one to explain that they weren't secretly vampires when they insisted in drawing blood every day, but that they were checking to make sure they didn't overdose me. When I was not able to sleep, he saw no problem with keeping me entertained. He had a marble and we would roll it back and forth across the hall--the challenge was to not get caught by the night nurse. When he was discharged, he managed to smuggle one of his books to read. To date, I still think IT was the longest book that I have read from cover to cover.

Once I understood what was going on, things got better quickly. I stopped fighting the staff and I agreed to the pills. The information that I had on what was wrong and how they were going to fix me was sketchy at best--but I understood that they were trying to make me not be other. And that I wanted more than anything else. I just wanted it all to end...and if I had to take a pill to do that, then that was acceptable.

But a lot of unnecessary psychological trauma could have been avoided if they hadn't assumed that because I was eight that I couldn't possibly understand and didn't need to be told what was going on. If a child had cancer, doctors go out of their way to explain every step of the way, and if not doctors, then the nurse or parents. The fact that they didn't because it was a mental illness is just an example of the institutionalized stigmatization of the mentally ill that goes on in our society. They locked me away and had it not been for West, I would have continued to have fought them every step of the way.

All because they assumed that I could not understand.

Resolutions 2015

Well, it's a new calendar year for those who follow the Gregorian calendar. Soon it will also be a new by the Chinese calendar as well. Some time during this period of time, I try to decide what I will do for the year--what will be my goals. I'm horrid at actually keeping track of things, but I like the attempt, in some masochistic way, I think. I didn't do very well last year as a glance over my previous list showed me, but I did make some steps forward, so that should count for something, right?

                                                                        

Resolutions 2015: 

                                                                        

Goal 1: I will become more healthy.   

Objective 1A: I will be analytical about my habits and behaviors rather than reactive.

• I will journal/blog at least once a week. Each entry must be a minimum of 250 words. 
• I will keep a weight journal, both fasting weight and nightly. 
• I will keep an oral journal--logging all food, drink, and medications.

Objective 1B: I will establish a set routine of physical and mental activity.

• I will endeavor to walk a mile each day.
• I will journal/blog at least once a week. Each entry must be a minimum of 250 words.
• I will do my Yoga routine daily.
• I will do my Belly-Dancing routine once a week.
• I will take my medications as prescribe and attend all appointments.
• I will begin each day with meditation. 
• I will cleanse myself daily.

                                                                        

Goal 2: I will better my situation.

 

Objective 2A: I will maintain or improve my GPA.

• I will attend all classes.
• I will do all homework.
• I will study for exams.

Objective 2B: I will continue working on my relationship.

• I will keep lines of communication open.
• I will not assume motives behind (in)action.
• I will ask for what I want rather than hint.

Objective 2C: I will work on my projects.

• I will write every day for a minimum of 250 words.
• I will finish a story project that I currently have in progress.
• I will finish the Glossary Project.
• I will finish getting the Haven System into book form.
• I will publish a 5k story at least once a month.

Objective 2D: I will grow spiritually.

• I will establish a routine of prayer and meditation.
• I will write an essay about the upcoming Sabbat by said date.
• I will write an essay about the current month by the end of said month.

Objective 2E: I will strive to become independent once more.
I will find programs that will help with rent.
I will find programs that will help with utilities.
I will continue to pursue disability.
I will look into freelancing my skills.

                                                                                                                                                             
 So that's my gradoise plan for 2015. Hopefully it will work out better than my plan for 2014 did.

It Gets Better...Yeah, Right

I'm sure that everyone has heard of Leelah Joshua Alcorn by now. You may have even read her suicide note found on her Tumblr page (here if you still haven't). She talks about the isolation that she felt, both due to her parents' actions and due to society's stigmatization of transgenders in general, and how that led her to the mental place where she couldn't see it ever getting better, even if she somehow managed the seemingly-impossible goal of transitioning. She was alone and all she could see in the future was more loneliness and loathing.

I understand how she felt. Being isolated because of something that you can't help hurts like nothing else. When this rejection of everything that you are comes from those who should love you most, it's even worse. You are left with a bitter taste in your mouth from it--the kind that lingers even when you've drunk something that normally cuts flavors. If your own mother can't love you, who possibly could? Or worse: your mother professes to love you and wants to help, but that help is contingent upon you accepting that you are wrong about something that is fundamentally you--your Cardinal Trait or Central Traits, to use the psychological terms.

To make it worse, when you do reach out to others, your concerns are met with derision ("You just need to accept God's Will."), condescendingly brushed aside ("Oh, everyone goes through that at one point or another."), or empty reassurances ("It gets better.")

"It gets better."

"How?" you beg, hoping for some guidance out of the Darkness, because you know that you simply can't continue like this. The darkness weighs on you too heavily--you can't breathe for the weight of it.

"You just need to decide to be happy." or "You need to be grateful for what you have before God/dess/Universe will give you more."

... oh, so this is my fault. I'm the one making me unhappy. If I could just be different, maybe I wouldn't be here in the Hole.

"There is no hole."

But there is! I'm trapped in it.

"You can't be trapped because there is no hole. It's just in your head. Just be happy."

How?!

"Doesn't matter. Just do it. You'll feel better."

That is usually when life seems its bleakest because you realize that you're on your own--there's no pill that will help you be like everyone else who laughs and smiles and can get things done in a consistent manner. No one's going hold your hand and pull you out of the pit. To them, there is no pit to climb out of, no wall that needs surpassed...and your acting like there is one is just a sign of you being selfish, lazy, and/or self-centered.

You should just try harder.

Those words are perhaps some of the most cruel that will be hurled at a depressed person. Most people don't realize the supreme effort it takes just to get out of bed for short periods of time when you're depressed. Some of the most common anti-depressants pump your body with Serotonin...which is also a chief chemical in the cocktail for sleeping. So you're tired all the time, in addition to not wanting to do anything. Even if you have something that you absolutely have to do, like work or school, it's hard to get through it, and you aren't performing at peak proficiency.

Have you ever been so tired that you're dizzy? Every step is like the ground is swaying under your feet. Your hands shake; your eyes itch; and your stomach seems to be eating itself, so you're nauseous on top of it all. You aren't well, but you don't look sick, just tired. You know what most people say about that? Beyond the jokes about "partying hard", there's also the oh-so-helpful admonitions to sleep more or go to bed "early". (Early is a term that is much debated because, heavens forbid, you go to bed in the afternoon, but even eight o'clock at night is too late to get the length of sleep that is required to be up at six in the morning.) Never mind the poor quality sleep that you get with frequent waking or even nightmares.

So you drag yourself to wherever it is that you need to be, and you try as hard as you can to not worry your friends/co-workers/family because you don't want to be called selfish or wallowing or whatever word is the favorite of the week. You now have a front seat watching as everyone moves on with their lives as if you weren't stuck in one place. It looks so easy. 'Why is it so easy for them, but not for me?' you ask yourself, filled with envy for their happiness, and their laughter. If only you could be like them...if only you weren't choosing to be depressed.

BUT!

It gets better.

Yuletide

I feel very lonely right now. I'll be spending most of Yule by myself for the first time since Alex and I became friends. The girls are over at Laura's for their visit with Alex and Luna.

This was supposed to be our first Yule together, as a pack. But circumstances aren't allowing for that. Instead of being together, we are in separate places where the other is not allowed or welcomed. There's no solid plan for getting together under the same roof, despite there being a lot of pressure to do so. Even if there was a plan, it doesn't seem to include me.

All my life I have been told about how I would end up alone. If not by doctors and teachers who tell me about how difficult dealing with a bipolar's mood swings, then by my mother questioning what I had to offer anyone for any type of relationship. For as long as I can remember, everyone that I held dear had either left or betrayed me. This has left me with trust issues. I'm constantly braced for that blow. I'm expecting it.

He said that he wouldn't leave. He promised. But everyone else has. Who would want to be around me forever anyway? I'm quite aware of my flaws and deficiencies. I have very little to offer as a companion. But he said that he would be there, first as a friend, and then as a partner.

I had three rules for my relationships. Rule one is never strike me in anger. Rule two is don't cheat on me (poly is different). Rule three is never issue an ultimatum. I don't think that they are fair, and I know that I would never win one if I issue one. I kept silent on several things that I have been told that I should not have. I didn't push when most people would have. Thus I have put up with a lot of criticism about my relationship with Alex and the situation that our pack is in from my family.

In the end, it appears not to have mattered. The ultimatum ended up being issued, just not by me. ...and the results were as I had always known they would be, as I had braced for. I was not the one chosen.

Later, he says that doesn't want to see me dead and that he still loves me. He says that he doesn't want to toss away the last twelve years and all that we have built. He says that he still wants me, and that this separation is only temporary. He has a plan, only I'm not included in the circle that it's been told to, and I'm not allowed to participate in the planning. He is not eager to try to spend time with me--though the opposite was true when he was away from Luna. He keeps saying the phrase "if this is as far as we can go together, then that's it" in a tone like it doesn't matter either way to him. He acts like this is all my problem. He can't help me, even though he can help Luna--in fact, he sacrificed looking for a job in order to be there for her.

Mother says that he's useless, and hates him, but she always has hated him. Not only was he a man, but he loved me--therefore his opinions were clearly flawed.

Daddy says that he only wants to see that Alex has my back at the end of the day, and he's not seeing that from him. He looks at my sister and my cousin who have been fortunate to be able to go through jobs like tissues at a funeral. Getting a job is just a matter of hard work and attitude, he says. If Alex can't get a job, he must be lacking these things. Never mind the situations being different. It must be personality. This viewpoint is also called fundamental attribution bias. One assumes the reason for something is a matter of personality instead of allowing for situational differences such as having a GED rather than a diploma, essentially a blank resume, and a large gap in that due to taking on a nontraditional parental role which would have been excusable if Alex had been female. Dad thinks it's so simple and Alex must just want a high paying job where he does nothing just handed to him, which isn't true. Wanting a job where you can support your family isn't unreasonable.

Dad also thinks that I should apply for benefits in my own right, because he thinks that I would get so much more. He thinks that there's cash available, and a housing allowance, and utility assistance. Apparently, Grandpa has run the numbers, so it must be true. I did a lot of research myself, and I came up with nothing. There's food stamps, which would go down if I took Alex off of them. There's TANF, which I'm not eligible for as it's a work program, and I can't work. There's MC+, which the girls have, and well, I do too, but mine only covers reproductive health, because I don't have an approved disability case. I don't qualify for Section 8, as it is administered by Housing Authority of Independence, and I'm not an acceptable tenet to them as they have kicked me out before. I also don't qualify for emergency placement on the list which is often five years long or more due to the fact that while I am homeless, I do not reside in a shelter, seeing as how going into one means that I either call Alex an abuser or I give the girls up to foster care. All my research couldn't turn up a program that would pay for utilities, or force landlords to. But my pointing out these flaws is me just choosing to fail, which is apparently something that he doesn't know how to do.

Everything that I'm reading says that being depressed is just a state of mind and as soon as you decide to not be depressed any more, it lifts. I don't want to be depressed any more, but how do I get out of the pit? Everything I've read says just to not be in the pit any longer. I want to know how. They list things like going for long walks or adhering to a strict schedule or eating a nutritious diet or getting enough sleep, all of which I can't do. I can't go for walks because of the overwhelming feeling that doing that alone is not safe which is powerful enough to make me sick to my stomach and dizzy. I can't force myself to sleep on schedule, which means that I may not be able to function during the day, making adhering to a schedule impossible. I'm too poor to buy much in the way of food, so planning balanced means is laughable at best. The funds just aren't there to do so.

I'm also supposed to adhere to my meds, but I forget to take them, and lately, I really feel like there's no point. I take the pills to be able to function for my family, but even with them, I failed my family. I lost the job despite knowing that everything was counting on me. I let things slide with Alex when I shouldn't have. I couldn't hold back and let the lies slide with Luna, or turn a blind eye to the false friend she trusted, and thus pushed her to the point that she threw down the ultimatum to Alex. I can't provide for my cubs, either by working or by getting disability. I can't stay on top of chores like I know that I need to. I lose track of days, some times spending several of them laying in bed staring at the ceiling trying to motivate myself to do something, all the while knowing that if I were to just die, then there would be an income to provide the girls a home--if only I could be certain that it would be Alex they would go to, instead of my mother or Alex's mother or my sister PJ. But I don't want to miss seeing them grow up--all those milestones that my mother never celebrated and through no fault of his own, Daddy wasn't really around to do so. It truly appears as if Luna is right about me and I'm selfish, too selfish to be a part of my pack, since I'm not willing to do what is necessary to help them.

And everyone is right. The situation is all my fault. If I were stronger, this wouldn't be a problem. After all, there are people who can handle being bipolar, a parent, an employee, and a student. They juggle everything, so I should be able to as well. And I really don't have any business putting school above housework. Why do I really think my problems are so unique and overwhelming? I am aware that I lack the pro-social behaviors that most people have. Trying to be nice isn't good enough. I need to actually be nice and put others before myself. I should know better than to try to argue with anyone. It just makes them angry, and serves no purpose but to drive away people. No one truly cares about what's true, only what they want to believe.

I deserve to be alone on Yule.

Congrats! You're a Dumbass!

I have bipolar disorder. The exact diagnosis is Bipolar Disorder, Type I, exhibiting rapid cycling. I also have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Depression, and Anxiety Disorder. I am overweight, possibly obese—it’s been a while since I have actually seen a primary care physician, so I don’t know exactly where my weight/height ratio falls. I know that I am outside what would be considered healthy, even with my wider frame to support it. I have high blood sugar—again, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a PCP, so I’m not actually diagnosed as diabetic. However, my fasting blood sugar is typically around 280-290 when I don’t have any of my ill-gotten medication in me. With the Metformin, I normally run around 180-200. But I only had a little bit from an ex-roommate and I’m out of it now. I’m lactose intolerant. I’m post-menopausal, despite not being thirty yet. There’s the possibility of there being a thyroid issue that isn’t being helped by my medications.

I am very stressed. I took a test in my psychology textbook that gives you a number based on ten questions. Normally a person in my age range and marital status runs at about 12-14 points. I scored a 33. I feel very swamped under it and not at all comforted about having identified that I am under a lot of stress. Maybe if I could see some way out from under it all, I could feel better, but there’s no end in sight.

I know that there are certain steps that I could take, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do them, at least not on my own or even with just a doctor’s recommendation/orders. Fear is the primary thing stopping me.

I don’t want to walk alone. I don’t feel safe doing it. But I can’t find anyone who wants to walk with me. Mostly this is a matter of time and availability. I was walking every day with Dad, but between school and work and moving out to the Farm, that ended. It just became infeasible for him to drive all the way out there every day. I was going to walk with Alex every day that we put the girls on the bus, but that deteriorated almost as soon as it was thought up. Jeanette wanted him working every day from the time the girls left on the bus until they got home in the afternoon. Then Luna was supposed to join me, but Luna didn’t want to get up that early…I don’t think she cared for the idea of spending time with me anyway. Now that I’m here at Mother’s, I’m not likely going to be able to attempt to get back to my walking either, as none of my family wants to be active and there’s no longer a convenient walking trail. Not that they were eager to walk with me the last time that I lived with them and there was a walking trail across the street. They would speed-walk away from me at a pace that I couldn’t keep up with and talk at the same time. I like walking and talking at the same time. It helps past the time and makes the exercise fun, rather than a chore. Alone isn’t fun. Alone is also very scary, between catcalls and stray animals and cars that rush by too close or out of nowhere. I can’t walk alone. Even the thought of doing so is bringing a hitch to my breathing and tears to my eyes.

I suppose that I could always go back to the idea of working out to the Yoga DVDs that have to be around here somewhere. I would just have to find a time when Mother or my siblings aren’t here/asleep. They don’t restrain themselves from making mocking comments when I work through the video. It doesn’t help that I already feel a bit ridiculous as I try to do certain things and can’t because I’m not that in shape or my belly (where most of my weight is centered) gets in the way. Or I have to stop because I’m winded or dizzy.

I don’t always take my meds like I’m supposed to, either. Sometimes, it’s just that I get caught up in the hustle and bustle of everything that I am trying to juggle or I get too tired to remember to take them before I go to bed. Other times, I just don’t want to mess with them. I know that’s bad thinking, but I think that things were better when I wasn’t trying to be something that I can never really be. I read these books about bipolar disorder and they talk about how there is a period of “normality” between the poles that everyone forgets about all the time. Well, isn’t that interesting? Because I really don’t remember this period, it seems. Maybe once upon a time I had a normal period, but it certainly wasn’t recently. I just go from cycle to cycle with various peaking points. They don’t always get as bad as this last manic cycle got, but then I was basically told that I would be losing my home in a matter of days for nothing. Then I was told that I wasn’t going to be a part of the girls’ lives anymore—never mind that Alex says that he didn’t realize that was what he was doing when he allowed his mother to talk him into that plan of action; that’s what it was doing.

(By the way, if you ever tell someone something and they become inconsolably upset, you shouldn’t just walk away from them like you don’t care. You should hold them and ask them why they are upset. If they can’t get an answer out at first or their answer doesn’t make sense, you don’t walk away like you don’t care—and that is the message you are sending if you do. You stay with them and maybe rub their back and help them breathe until they are calmer. Then you ask why again. This is especially true if the person goes from inconsolably upset to inexplicably calm enough to begin to plan their demise—when you had discussed with them just the day before how they were haunted by the knowledge that their death would bring in enough money to end the financial hardship that their family was under and they couldn’t believe that they were being so selfish as to not do it. By walking away from someone who is in that mindset, you are telling them that you don’t care enough to stay, that in a way, you wished they were dead. This is especially true if in every fight that you had been having with this person up until this point—and the ones that another person in the household had been having with them, as well—you had called the person selfish several times or self-centered—which is the very thing that they thought they were being by not helping in every way that they could. Walking away when someone is in crisis is a bad thing, especially when you don’t come back.)

Going back to how I’m bipolar with rapid cycling for a moment:

That night, I had a breaking point. It’s called crisis. It’s a point when a person literally cannot take any more upon themselves. Never mind broken, I was shattered. I wasn’t having suicidal thoughts. I was making a plan. Do you know what that means for most people? It means that it’s box time. You remove all objects from a person, including their clothes, because you know, they don’t deserve dignity anymore, and you put them into a little box with no windows and a door the locks from the outside. You leave them in there until they learn their lesson about thinking so silly thoughts. That’s a terrible place to be—not just that claustrophobic box, but that mental place where it becomes painfully obvious that the best and only option is your own death.

Now some of you are scoffing, I know, and I even know why: you’ve never been there. Others of you are nodding and going “I know that feeling”, because you have been there. You know that there reaches a point when the old survival instinct starts to kick in and like a drowning person, you start grabbing onto anything that comes close just so you can not feel like that anymore. And once you find that feeling, all that depth of emotion that had gone into the crisis boils over into it and fills you up because it is at least somewhat better than dying. Most people on the outside will tell you that the crisis is over—the person isn’t seeking to kill themselves anymore, so it must be right?

Wrong.

You see, the break is still there. You aren’t healthy and you are most certainly not put back together again. You are still a danger to yourself, but now also others. You see, most of the time, after you have reached that dark depth, you move onto anger. The form this anger takes can be many, but most of the time, you begin by lash out—usually at the source of the final straw before the break, the “cause” of your crisis. Any little thing becomes a huge sign of their betrayal, and instinctually you see them as having almost killed you. So you want to hurt them, just as much as they hurt you, never mind if that hurts you too or people completely innocent of the whole thing. Most of the time, this person is a partner, a best friend, or a parent, so you will know exactly what would hurt them the most, because these are people that we are vulnerable with.

And guess what? That breaking point was with reality as well, so it doesn’t even have to be a real problem that exists anywhere outside of your own head—not that you know this, because you are convinced to the core of your being that it’s true and breaking a psychosis—fancy word that describes your thought process at this point in time—is not something that can be done at one time, or even only once and be done with it. No, that takes time, time that you may not get because you basically attacked someone who is usually your greatest support and who may not even realize why you are attacking them. Let’s face it: you are psychotic.

You are also now a self-fulfilling prophecy. You are the bipolar who cannot be consistent, who destroys themselves because they couldn’t not do so. You are alone because you abused the one person who has tried to be there through everything—who put up with all your immature shit and wild delusions. You forced the one person who promised you forever to break his promise and you have no one to blame but yourself.

It doesn’t matter if you would change it if you could…because you can’t change it, can you? Even if you get your shit together and take the meds perfectly and lose the extra weight and get over being depressed, there will always be that inconsistency there, lingering in the background, circling like a shark, and just waiting for something to happen. And you know it will, because you’ve been there before, haven’t you? You’ll be fine for years, able to cope just fine, maybe not perfectly, but you can get by—then something will happen…late night out with friends, maybe, or a move, a change in job: you know, the little instabilities that are just a part of life, but that you can’t handle because of something that you were born with and for which there is no cure; hell, there’s not even such a thing as remission despite what you’ve read in a few places because that wasn’t your Type of Bipolar, now was it?

Well, congratulations. You fucked up the one good thing that you had going for you.

Don’t you feel fucking fabulous?

Stuck on a Ledge

I am afraid.

No, that’s not right.

I am terrified.

Of what? Of everything, it seems.

My greatest fear is failure. Or at least that’s how I think it can be explained simply. Failure means that I lose everything that I have worked for my entire life. Failure means that I live up to the expectations that my mother had for me—which is to say: that I be nothing. Failure means that I end up alone and bitter, just like my mother, or alone in a hospital unable to recall my own name, let alone who my children are. Failure means that I end up in a tiny box of some variety because I could not control myself. Failure means that I die before I am able to see the girls graduate college, or before I greet my grandchildren. Failure means that I see nothing but disappointment on my father’s face.

And so, I’m afraid, because it seems that I am failing. It’s not a quick process like I always thought it was—I thought that it would be BOOM and it’s over and I’ve failed and it’s time to pick myself up and try again. No, it’s a slow process like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. I look down and I can’t see the bottom. I look up and can’t see the top. I’m suspended between the two points and moving ever downward and cannot stop. I can sort of figure out what needs to be done about various things, but I need to stop the momentum pulling me downwards towards the pit of despair.

Dad wants me to plan, but I can’t plan when I can’t stop going downwards. I can’t plan when I have no resources at my disposal. I can’t plan when I don’t know what’s going to happen from day to day. Planning requires a certain amount of predictability to one’s days—predictability that I don’t really have. Planning requires a certain amount of independence, which again, I don’t have. All my potential plans are contingent upon other people, and of things working out to my benefit. That is something that hasn’t happened in a long time.

Dad thinks I should sign up for Hawthorne, but I’ve been kicked out of Hocker Heights, which is run by the same people as Hawthorne. He’s seems so sure that I could get in immediately because I’m homeless—never mind that I’ve told him that I don’t meet HUD’s definition of homeless because I’ve done what I can to avoid shelters, seeing as how you go to one with kids and they call DFS first thing. “Oh, but that’s not true—“ Bullshit. I’ve seen it done. And then because the woman was Wiccan, they refused to let her have her kids back. I’m not going to lose the girls. If I lose the girls, it’s game over and I’ve lost. It’s as simple as that. Department of Family Services doesn’t really help; they just steal children from parents trying to do their best and abandon the children that truly need their help. That’s how they operate in practice, regardless of what they are supposed to do in theory. I grew up in the class that is prosecuted by them. Hellfire, I’m still in the class that is prosecuted by them. How often do you see a middle class child being taken or an upper class? No, it’s always the poor families whose children need “saving”.

Besides, signing up for Hawthorne requires something that I don’t have: an income. You need to be able to pay utilities because they don’t do that for you. And the “utility supplement” that they give you is nowhere near enough to actually cover the utilities. Despite what he’s seen coming out of Kansas City, Hawthorne is not required to pay utilities for you. Guess what happens when your power gets turned off for lack of payment? You get evicted for failure to maintain property. Which means that IF I managed to get in without an income, I would only have it for about a month before I was kicked out and found myself homeless once more. That means that I would have the stress of moving twice in about a month.

I don’t move well. I don’t sleep well from the anticipation of it and during the actual process I break into several pieces that rocket off into several different directions. I get angry. I get depressed. I get confused and lost. I get scared and panicky. I get sick and can’t eat. I don’t move well. It’s not a simple thing like what most people seem to experience. They don’t like it but they can function during it. I can’t. I fall apart.

Dad thinks that I should try signing up for TANF again. I suppose that I could, but I don’t have two people that aren’t related to me that would be able to vouch for the state of my affairs. Even then, TANF isn’t enough to actually live off of it. It’s only a couple of hundred dollars a month. That’s not enough to pay one utility, let alone the three that would be necessary if I had a place at Hawthorne—or three plus rent if I had to be somewhere else. And it won’t last for longer than a year and a half because I’ve been on it before, and that draws from the total allotment, so I would end up back in the same place in short order.

But I’m “just being negative” when I mention these things and “talking myself out of doing anything”. Never mind that I’m pointing out the reasons that his idea will not work the way that he thinks that they will. He thinks that TANF works the same way that its predecessor program did, which is what everyone thinks. “Welfare” isn’t a permanent thing anymore. You have five years of cash help, if you have kids, and that’s it. Food Stamps doesn’t have a limit, no, but the cash to pay for things like rent, utilities, those little incidentals that are necessary (clothes, school supplies, toilet paper, soap, cleaning supplies, etc.)—that stuff is only for five years, not five years at a time, but five years in a lifetime. And it’s never very much either.

Dad gets all huffy when I try to explain this to him. He knows this person or that person who makes it work. Why can’t I? I don’t think you actually know what that person is doing to make it work—or if it working at all. Just because their Section 8 voucher says that Grandpa has to pay electric doesn’t mean that all Section 8 vouchers will—besides which, Section 8 is a three to five year wait with priority going to those people who are already in government housing. I’m not in government housing, for the reasons that have already been discussed.

I keep saying that my Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs is messed up, but no one seems to be listening. I’m trying to go to college when I can’t even figure out my housing situation or my relationship. I have no stability in my life. I thought that things were getting better—I had started singing again and I had unpacked my books for the first time in over a year. I had a space that I could claim as mine…

I should have known it was too good to have lasted.

Alex started spending most of his time in another room. Anytime that I went into that room, things got tense, like I was interrupting something or intruding, so I stopped going in. The last thing that I want to do is force my company on anyone. But I was afraid to ask for him to come to me very often. I was afraid of asking too much of him, of anyone. And maybe that stems from my issues with Mother, who was—and still is—fond of talking about how much of a burden that I am, just by existing.

I’ve read the literature on bipolar people and their relationships. The constant up and down of them—the constant flux between dependence and rejection—that wears down the relationship to the point that they break. Besides, there’s all this talk about how a healthy relationship is all about equality. People are equally independent and work together to make a successful partnership. You have to be able to trust and be trusted in return. If you don’t know when your partner is going to crack under the pressure and break down into inconsolable tears, how can you trust them? If you never know when your partner is going to decide that they simply must have such and such and use up funds that are needed elsewhere, how could you trust them? If you can’t trust your partner to believe you when you tell them that they are loved and can ask for attention without you reprimanding them for being selfish, how will you know when they are feeling like they’re being ignored?

He says that he feels as if he was being pushed away. I say that I felt him pulling away. He says that was just him changing, growing—I should do the same. I say that I have been doing it too, but I don’t want to grow away from him. But I’m stuck, aren’t I? I was so afraid of losing him, that I kept him at arm’s length. I can’t move forward, but I can’t move backwards either. I can’t have him, but I can’t live without him. I’m too much work, too much needs to be done to coax me off the ledge and I can’t just jump, can I? I want someone to pull me—take me under—but I can’t ask for them to do it, because that would mean admitting that I can’t do something that everyone else can do.

He says that I’m jealous of Luna—but I don’t want him to get rid of her…I just want the cookie too. I want him to want to spend time with me. I want him to want to session with me. I want him to want to slip my collar on me before cradling my face and kissing me. I want to be held like I’m precious and not have him rushing to move away or move it into something sexual. I want him to see me struggling and offer to help. I want him to take charge and say that he’s got a plan for how we’re going to stay together as a family rather being split into pieces again and never seeing each other except in passing. I want him to want my company. I don’t want to be alone with my nightmares. But I’m not the one that he defaults to when he “autopilots”. That’s her. And she’s the one who shares his interests in Pokémon and My Little Pony and Skylanders. And she’s the one with all the interesting knowledge of kinky things. And she’s the one who isn’t afraid to ask for things that she wants. And she’s capable of making friends on her own. And she doesn’t have a therapist and a psychiatrist. And she’s not the one needing to lose weight because her blood sugar is too high. She’s easy to get along with for most people, except that she hates me. And how can I compete with someone who is everything that I’m not? Someone who has already issued the ultimatum and I’ve lost…I’ve lost everything because I couldn’t be what he wanted. I couldn’t be easy; I couldn’t be her.

All I’ve ever wanted was him, but I can’t be what he needs me to be. I can’t be anything except what I am. I try to get along with people, but I always end up slipping and pointing out things that they don’t want to focus on or realize about themselves. I try to speak up about what I want, but when the first time isn’t successful, I can’t bring myself to ask again, because the rejection hurts and I can’t breathe for it. I try to trust people but I hear a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t and I can’t take that last step off the ledge. I know the voices, and I know that they don’t have my best interests in mind, but they’re so loud and just there and I can’t push off the edge, even knowing that I may not fall, that I may fly.

I’m scared, so scared. I can’t breathe. I can’t stop shaking. And I know that everyone else doesn’t have this problem and I should be able to handle things because everyone else can and this is just part of being a grownup—grownups take care of things and they don’t cry over things all the time and they aren’t crippled by the normal ups and downs of life—and they don’t need a specially chosen mug in order to write or for their pillows to smell a certain way or to have a specific quilt to sleep with and they don’t count their steps to four over and over again. And they don’t have to focus in order to not get lost in the ever-rippling tide of what if? that flows away from everything all the time. They don’t panic when something changes in their environment. They can create plans for their future, and if something happens to derail that plan, they can just regroup and try again.

They aren’t stuck on ledges, wanting to jump but unable to bring themselves to do it. They just jump.

So what’s wrong with me that I can’t?