Psychcological Drugs V.S. Natural Remedies-Searching For My Rainbow

“Sanity is not a choice, you can’t just choose to get over it”

(Shutter Island, 2010).

I have been physically ill, no not from the stomach flu or the nasal flu but from the lovely reactions and side effects of the drugs I am currently taking. I am fighting back as much as I can, pumping myself full of all natural remedies. But, as I mentioned before, there is no straight diagnoses for those who suffer from psychological disorders, no, we are indeed test subjects (guinea pigs).
Drugs are only approved by the FDA if the drug company can show the positive effects; there are few cases in which negative effects are presented to the FDA, nor does the FDA truly look into the harm that can be done.
You see, in order for a drug to receive its license it must prove that the drug is better than a placebo; which would be easy to do since placebos are a manipulation of one's mind to believe there is some type of healing effect. I am getting on board of an uncontrolled experiment, and so are many other who have to take meds to control psychological disorders. It is difficult to think about coming off of meds, because these drugs are not easy to mess with. If you just drop your meds you are absolutely guaranteed to have an episode that will ruin or take your life. Weaning off of a medication is difficult because you are taking something away from your body and brain. You can feel the reactions and you can feel so desperate to end them. How fun to experience the negative effects of anti-depressants, anxiety controllers and antipsychotics; whether you’re adjusting to them, currently taking them or weaning off of them, the effects suck.
I have an appointment with my psychiatrist tomorrow and I am going to request that we agree to wean me off of an unnecessary drug. I am going to fight for my body, mind and spirit. Natural remedies are what I am seeking.
I discovered from a documentary that two handfuls of raw cashews have the equivalent calming effect as one dose of Prozac. Of course Prozac didn't work for me, but it was the chemicals that fucked me up, not the "calming effect" that Prozac claims. I know a lot of people will doubt most of what I am saying, but if you’re fighting for your life wouldn’t you try everything you possibly could to stay alive? Well I am. I am reading a book I probably mentioned before, The Natural Medicine Guide to Bipolar Disorder. “Although antipsychotics are ostensibly given to control delusions or hallucinations they actually have no specific effects on either” 2003) the book also includes a statement made by Dr. Peter R. Breggin, M.D., and David Cohen, Ph.D. (authors of the book Your Drug May Be Your Problem) “All neuroleptics produce an enormous variety of potentially sever and disabling neurological impairments at extraordinarily high rates of occurrences; they are among the most toxic agents ever administered to people” (2003). This is not what I want to live with any longer; this is not what I want for my body. I want health and life for me and my husband, and my beautiful kiddos.
It’s raining outside and on the way to taking my kids to school, they were awing at a beautiful rainbow. They spoke about the possibility of treasure being at the end of the rainbow, I told the kids that you could never catch a rainbow.
 Who was I to ruin my kid’s faith in life and the beauty of nature? I then excitingly told them that if they tried real hard they can catch their rainbow. I am on my journey to catch my rainbow, aren’t we all?          

Opening Up a Can of Fear- Journal Entries From the Start of Prozac...Until the End

February 9, 2011

I have to stop thinking about what I am going to write and just write what I think.

I have been thinking a lot about a lot of things, like keeping my experiences in order of the timeline that everything happened to me in the past. However, the way it all plays out becomes way to difficult and scripted. Therefore everything will spill out as it spills out.

In the beginning of everything I seen the psychotic words slipping out of my mind onto paper. I wrote several thoughts into my journal.

(Shivering to open up this journal, but as I look at the yellow hard book, I see the ware of it, I see the dirt it has been dragged through. Please understand that doing this is not a menial step in my opening up or facing my fear, this is a life changing step at this moment. Facing my fear at this moment… Holding on at this moment...)

5/10/10

It’s a mental battle that I never seem to win;  it doesn’t matter what side I’m on or what side I think I am on, especially because I don’t know if I’m fighting myself or something else.


5/13/10

Not sure why I’m so depressed, confused and fucked-up. I had a good session with my doctor [psychologist], I “adopted” a new mantra which he prescribed to me “I am doing the best I can…Today!” Why can’t I even start to say or believe this? My poor kids are watching me go crazy in my own mind…

5/14/10

People think, believe or assume that one can switch depression on or off like some available light switch. Unfortunately, this is not so, otherwise, I would get my ass off the couch and flip that damn switch to happy, content or most desired in my mind, peace. In addition to the magic switch, people believe depression is controllable, some mind puppy I can feed treats to and make it do meaningless happy tricks.

5/15/10

I don’t recollect feeling sad, helpless or angry. I believe my day was calmer (mentally) than previous days. I’m not sure if it because Rick was home after a week of being gone or if my mental health is improving thanks to Prozac…”I am doing the best that I can…Today.”

5/19/10

I wonder if at some point everyone taking anti-depressants wants to stop taking them. I don’t have any devastating side effects that I feel or see, other than the drowsiness. But as far as wanting to kill myself…nope, no enhancement of that. I mean I still think what would happen if I consumed every drug in the house: Prozac, Ambien, Vicodin, Tylenol 3, Tylenol PM, the kids meds…just a hard cocktail. Sure it would be dangerous but I don’t want to die, I just want to experience.    Probably not the healthiest experience to want to try.

5/23/10

Don’t know what to think, how to feel; I’m wondering if I’m getting better or losing. Losing to myself and losing myself as I am or as I was. I don’t want to lose my spunk, but I need to keep myself under-control. Is the medication working or is the newness and excitement wearing down; wearing sad…wearing ugly. I’m not sure yet. This is week three, last Thursday [of taking Prozac] and I’m anxious-scared for week four of Prozac!

6/1/10

I feel anxious in the way of wanting to end my life. I try to talk myself into realizing why I shouldn’t hang myself by the beam in [my brother’s] room, even the beam in the living room. The beam is so high and heavy, so obvious and bold looking. I would get myself up there and just hang there until the areal view of the living room starts to go dark and I’m no longer here. But then I realize that my kids may have to live [with] what I’ve done or worse…see what I’ve done…

6/6/10

Don’t want to but I need to, I want to fucking jump out the window, I want to fucking DIE. It’s 2:21 am, I wanted to drink my wine, get merrily advantage of by “friends”. I smoked weed so it would help me sleep but without Ambien I feel like a suicidal Insomniac. I mean I am practically writing in the dark right now, I have little light, but enjoy light to shadow my hand as it dances psychotically across the page. Fuck this I want my Ambien.”

6/7/10

What the hell am I thinking anymore? I guess yesterday’s Ambien binge and tequila shots weren’t productive for me. Suicide looks beautiful. My mothering skills are depleting, my financial management is so screwed u, and I feel like I am so fucked! So Fucked up I can’t take this, I don’t know if I am even trying or if I am depending on Prozac to get me through; which I’ve noticed little difference. My whole life is inside-out and vomiting shit [verbally and mentally] everywhere. Suicide looks Beautiful!

These are the entries up to my first suicide attempt; obviously Prozac wasn’t working for me.

Read It Or Not Here I Write...Oh Yeah Before You Forget...I'M FREAKING BIPOLAR

I am alive today and that is what truly matters. I am here and I am surviving. I feel like and believe that there are many people out there who underestimate Bipolar and other psychological disorders and disease. Here are some real statistics to open eyes of the ignorant and the curious:

·         Among people with bipolar disorder, the rate of alcoholism and drug abuse is three times that of the general population. [ For the reason of self medicating the disorder]

·         As many as 1 in 5 people with bipolar will commit suicide

Marohn, S. (2003) The Natural Medicine Guide to Bipolar Disorder

·         2.6% million of the American population suffers from Bipolar

·         Over 2/3s of people who are suffering from Bipolar has a family history of Bipolar disorder in their family.

·         Bipolar is reported to be the sixth direct cause of disability in the entire world

·         1 in 5 people with Bipolar disorder will commit suicide

·         Children with one or both parents who have Bipolar disorder will most likely inherit the disorder by a 15%-75%  margin

·         Approximately 3.4 adolescent and young children who suffer from depression will most likely experience an early onset of Bipolar disorder (Stats in the U.S. only)

·         “Bipolar disorder treatment is not about curing the disease because there is no known cure for it” (2011, Bipolar Symptoms)

·         It is estimated that every day in America 90 people commit suicide

·         For every suicidal death there are 8-25 suicidal attempts

·         Every 15 minutes someone dies from committing suicide in the U.S.

“More Americans suffer from depression than coronary heart disease (17 million), cancer (12 million) and HIV/AIDS (1 million)” (2011, AFSP).

Now all you nay-Sayers, skeptics, criticizers, unbelievers and non-supporters, what say ye now? Do you believe in the truth and the facts, I am speaking from the mind of a Bipolar person. I am not just writing about what I went through in my past almost eight months ago, I am writing from my experiences today and hopefully tomorrow. You see, when I first started this blog I was writing to let all of this pain out and hopefully touch the lives of those who suffer from Bipolar and the loved ones’ of a Bipolar sufferer. I recently began holding back a lot of things knowing that the contents of my life may include people who read this blog. Although I will not, I will definitely not use their names, but I will not hold back when it comes to writing the truth of my experiences. Like it or not, I will write with no limitations or hesitations… the way I intended this blog to be.

With all of that said I must look at how I can look back and see how my life slowly began to fall apart. I had no way of knowing that my compulsive, aggressive behavior was a manic outburst. I had no idea that crying for no reason and hiding my depression was a part of a Bipolar low. I wondered why I was so emotional at times; even my family would tell me I was emotional. I was up and I was down. I am up and I am down.
As a teenager I wanted to party and tear shit up, drink, smoke out, trip out and have as much sexual experiences as I could. I was with a boy when I was just fourteen, he was seventeen; to me he was a compulsive liar whom I didn’t trust. I guess I stuck with him because I was emotionally attached to him and being with him allowed me to have freedom from my house. Although we were together in an adult like relationship we were both very immature. There would be times that I would want to be with him all the time and I would hate him because I would always catch him in lies, I would cry at night and in the shower. Then there would be times where I would be completely out of control, we would party together with friends. I never set any sexual limitations with other guys while I was with him. I cheated on him about five times. Some affairs he didn’t know about, ever, which was exciting to me because there I was carrying on this secret sexual relationship and he had no idea. But I felt that his continual lies vindicated my actions. The other affairs…well he found out about because his big mouthed friends didn’t know how to keep their damn mouths shut. My sexual hunger came in waves and my brokenness seemed to have lasted a lifetime. I felt like there was never anyone who could understand my fucked up mind.
The life I lived at that time was an up and down experience in my life, my boyfriend was someone I could confide in but I couldn’t trust. Being with him at other times would give me such a high, due to all the crazy things we did. But then I would drop, fast. At one point I became friends with one of his best-friends, her and I were talking about fun girl stuff (our periods); I mentioned to her that I could never predicted when it would come because I had problems with all that inner lovely “stuff”. I then told her that I was late but I started having cramps the week before. All of a sudden my boyfriend asked me if I was pregnant, REALLY? It flooded the school so quickly that day, so quickly that my brothers found out and when I got home my mom and my sister talked to me about it. I felt betrayed, shamed and embarrassed…I fell to a low that was something like nothing. I would smoke out and slop down like a dead plant.
When the hell could I ever trust someone, someone who was honest with me, to my face? I wanted someone who would keep my secrets and help me through my issues, because Lord knows I had so many issues that I couldn’t handle them in my own head. I would call myself names because I was worthless to “friends” and distant from my family, so why not, why not look at myself in the mirror saying words of hate. Why not betray myself and look at me and my disgusting self, what the hell was wrong with me.
Even now there is no one other than my family (now) that I can call friends. (Well I can call at least one or two people friends.) Friends: 1. Somebody emotionally close: somebody who trusts and is fond of another (2011, Encarta Dictionary).  But I must say that I do have an amazing cousin that I can count on, she is sweet and honest. She gives me hope and helps me to know that everything is going to be okay. I listen to her and she listens to me, I love being with her and she is another person I can joke with about my psychotic breakdown. She reminds me to keep it together and hold on tight to the ones who love me.
I gain hope and I am reminded that the straight razor that was once my best-friend isn’t there to make me feel good and release my pain. I think about her words, my family, my presence on earth, my body, my mind…then I see the blade isn’t so sweet. The gliding of the sharpness across my skin will no longer release my pain. I look upon the intricate-patterned scare lines mutilation of my skin-reminding me of only pain. The scars remind me of all the pain I tried to release; I wanted to release pain that I couldn’t feel mentally or emotionally so I wanted to feel pain physically. I can’t feel that way now…

References

AFSP (2011). American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Facts and Figures: National

Statistics. http://www.afsp.org/

Bipolar Symtoms (2011). Bipolar Symptoms.org. Basic: Am I Bipolar?

http://www.bipolarsymptoms.org/Basics/Am-I-Bipolar.html

Marohn, S. (2003). The Natural Medicine Guide to Bipolar Disorder. What Is Bipolar and Who Suffers

           From It ?; Facts About Bipolar Disorder. pp. (5) Hampton Roads Publishing Company Inc.

Crying, Slipping and Hoping Not to Fall Down (A Bipolar Low)

I was thinking about how difficult it was posting that last blog post… I previously stated that I am completely scared to write about the incidents that happened only seven months ago. You see, people in my life forget that everything is wiped away and put far in the past. But for me I still fear so many things, I fear seeing the house we lived in (where everything took place). I fear the streets I ran away on.
We were helping my sister move, driving down familiar streets that I remember running down in fear...I cried

Friday I discovered how shitty our health care is now! Our insurance sucks and the only insurance most doctors take without having to contact our insurance company before every appointment is Molina, a low income insurance. (I don't put down those who actually need it.) So did you catch that crap, a whole process just to see our doctors, but someone on government care can soak up the system. My husband works his ass off and pays taxes-every paycheck, our tax returns are low and we get more money taken out for medical care. So they’re telling me my husband has to work part time and sit on his ass the rest of the day in order for us to receive reasonable care. It’s shitty! I don’t understand it. I tried to make an appointment for my kids with their pediatrician, whom they’ve seen for all of their lives and I was denied because I had to get approved by my insurance company first...I cried.

I messed up on my son’s homework and his teacher sent it back with a big “incomplete” written across the top in red ink. I can’t believe my mind blanked out and my son paid for it...I cried.

Yesterday we were driving on the freeway and as I was talking to Rick I kept tripping over my tongue and murdering my words. I forget a lot of things now and I feel so stupid, I want to say something and I slur my words like I am drunk. I lose focus and I see nothing but pain and sadness, I wish I can speak clearly without feeling inadequate. Of course during and after feeling that way…I cried…

This is not a “pity me” emotional cry; this is me slowly slipping down into a place I don’t want to go. When I talk to Rick about wanting to hang on I cry because I fear what I will lose. I fear the time I will lose, the joy and laughter I will not recognize. I am fighting this and it's a battle I want to win so badly.
At this point I have to step back-from looking back and refocus on what I have now. Because If I cry I won’t laugh, if I don’t laugh, I feel guilty, and if I feel guilty, I blame myself. If I blame myself, I fall into an absolute low in which I will be unable to recover from easily. It isn’t easy, this isn’t easy. Do you get it? Is there anyone out there who actually knows what this feels like or even knows what I am talking about? I am so tired of not being able to live without reliving horrific memories. This isn’t a “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger!” type thing...this is "What almost killed me makes me broken". I cannot say that things are easy to forget, this is embedded in me for the rest of my life. I feel like crying at every moment that I let my guilt and blame take over my mind. The scars on my arms remind me of all the tormenting pain and all of the flashbacks.
I tried to “look on the bright side” and this time, to my surprise I was able to. I was able to look at beautiful moments. I was happy in a high but in a calming high, I seen my kiddos laugh and I soaked in their love.  Rick and I enjoyed spending time with my sister and her husband. I always love our time together. She is opening up more to my sense of humor about my situation and she doesn’t give me hell for being on meds. We had a great time and lots of laughs.
When picking up my kids from my parent’s house after an all grandkids sleep over (my parents are awesome, 11 kids all at once…wooo) I was able to smile with my heart. Of course my type A mom was cleaning the house with bleach, typical for her on a Saturday, if she’s not out with my dad. My mom has always been on our backs about cleaning, doing chores around our house wasn’t just taking out the trash and washing dishes. Our chores were to strip everything out making sure everything was clean-spotless. We hated doing our chores and cleaning so much. But now if you look at our places and our possessions, you would see the results of her influence; everything is clean and lasts along time. My kids’, Rick’s and my clothes are so organized it's ridiculous, but everyone can find what they are looking for. I am proud to inherit that intense obsession of cleanliness, my mom taught me well and seeing her in operation makes me smile with glee.
I stepped outside to see my dad’s large garden, the soil turned and ready for planting. I asked him so many questions about how not to kill my garden. We stood and talked, I appreciated his love and knowledge of plants and life-growing from the earth...at that moment I knew that I can grow a garden without killing it. There was a moment in which my heart was overwhelmed with love. I was able to drive away in the car with such joy in my heart and love for my family; I was able to put my past experiences and my Bipolar away for enough time to embrace the moments of love.
The difficult thing for me at this point is making sure that I maintain my level of joy; I don’t want to be so high that I grow wildly out of control, nor do I want to disappear from my life and become someone who is buried into nothing. Last night I layed my head down on my pillow and I faced my sweet husband, he always stares at me like he is lost in my eyes. Facing one another I cried telling him how I didn’t want to go down, he told me it will be okay, everything is gonna be alright (quoting Bob Marley). I told him I wanted to hold on and I didn’t want to go down, I told him how I was slipping down already…and he said he notices my change. You see, he watches me transform into something I dread, hate, love, enjoy, loath and fear. He sees me begging a God that will hear my inner shouts. Rick sees me trying to stay in a medium state! He knows when I need him to bring me down and when he needs to pull me up.
I don’t want to write in a low, I don’t want to have to spill it all out… out loud…or on paper. I don’t want my kids to have to deal with this…they're the reason I am alive. I don’t want my kids to see me and Audrey having to take care of Noah telling him, “It’s okay, Mommy isn’t feeling good, she still loves us.”
I don’t want to go down.

I am in a battle at this moment, a battle I fear, but fight.

I am in a time of limbo that keeps me in suspense…Oh dear God where is the light

Don’t want to fall when I think I am flying down

My happy smile hurts, even my grin is pain, and my angry smirk is easy, just like a "screw you" frown

Questioning the world around me and how confused I can be…becoming

Becoming someone I don’t even know

Will you know oh natives and sightseers?

And you companion, hold on to me as I slip out of my own hands

Grasping onto muddy roots of a pit unable to even stand

Am I heard, am I heard by my own ears-don’t you see the pain in my tears

Recognize my fears

Let me write with joy and sing with life in my mind

I want to love myself in every word I speak; I want to write to me…yes even if it is only me

So my question is:

Is it better to write about sad things when you’re happy and happy things when you’re sad?

Or

Is it better to write about sad things when you’re sad and happy things when you’re happy?

Running to the Day I Was Ready to Die

I can remember the first time I feared looking into the mirror; it was the time when the band Green Day began topping the charts. Nirvana inspired a grunge look that represented the freedom of words in our generation, old knit sweaters, loose fitting pants and band stamped t-shirts. It was the time that Face-To-Face had our attention and a little-old band named Sublime was gaining population in our small High Desert. A lot of us junior-highers attended their concert at the San Bernardino Fair Grounds, it was awesome and I was on a high (not just because of the pot) I wanted to fly. I was only in the seventh grade and I began my road to promiscuity, my high feeling made me feel invincible. I was out-of-control manic; I had no idea that my behavior was impulsive and tied to Bipolar Disorder. I wanted everything I could get my hands on, but when I looked in the mirror I seen it. I seen the hate in my eyes for the first time, after seeing that aggressive look I became depressed and hated my life, I tried not to show it.

As my depression set in there was a shot heard around the fans of Nirvana, the lead singer Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head. In a documentary I recently watched Kurt express how he was Bipolar and began cleaning himself up, but shortly after that he fell for Courtney Love. Kurt’s desire for the wild punk-chick turned his life back to drugs, putting Bipolar in the back of his mind. The Bipolar mixed with serious drugs put the deadly disorder in back of Kurt’s mind, but the torment seemed to be too much. Some people could sense his troubles. For the Nirvana-Unplugged show on MTV Kurt wanted white Asiatic lilies and candles all over the stage, the producer said it would look like a funeral, Kurt said yes like…a funeral. That’s what I wanted! I wanted to leave…to have a funeral.
Every person who is completely depressed and preparing to leave this earth by their own hands leaves clues behind, whether they are discrete or obvious. My signs were obvious to me but not to Rick and his brother, I believe they thought I was just all talk.

I am completely scared to write this, I have never written about this. My heart is beating intensely, my head is light, my hands are shaky and my eyes are welling up with tears. I am so afraid right know. But if I keep this inside I am not sure I will ever get it out. I am only three months away from the date I began taking my meds, even more difficult this is the exact time that I first started feeling very depressed, I suppressed it with everything possible. I would clean the house in the morning watching the clock, when the clock came to 11:30 it was lunch time. Lunch time was okay to have my first glass of wine, which would end up being the first glass of a bottle that would be empty by the end of the day. I wasn’t a wino; I loved the tastes, the sweetness, flowery merlots and beautiful sweet white wines. I also loved wine because it didn’t give me a buzz the way liquor did, I rarely drank beer which was either a Corona or Guinness. By 3:00 in the afternoon I would be buzzed and I only had two glasses of wine left in the bottle, I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t take the pain away. No weed for me, I could no longer be enticed by the smell.
At one point I completely slowed down on any alcohol or toxic waste, I focused on exercise and Yoga. I would run on the treadmill for 45 minutes, do strength training for 15 minutes and do Yoga for 20 minutes. I felt really good, healthy and strong; I was confident and loved my healthy body. I slowly began to lose confidence while I ran on the treadmill. It wasn’t an outward confidence pertaining to my body but to my mind. I started cutting down on my exercise especially when I began to cry as I ran on the treadmill. I felt like there was someone running right behind me but I was too afraid to look. From that time on I felt like there was always someone malevolent behind me just waiting for me to turn around.
At one point we had friends over and we were having a good time, I was trying to put my depression away, I was pretty buzzed and I freaked out in my mind. I thought the tap on my shoulder was one of my friend’s touch but I turned and no one was there. I turned around and I felt utter fear, fear that made me run, and I literally ran. It was a cold winter night, without a sweater I walked out of our garage and down the side walk. The neighborhood kids asked where I was going and I calmly said I was just taking a walk. As soon as I turned the street corner I ran, and ran so freaking fast that whoever was chasing me couldn’t keep up. I picked up a huge stick and began walking fast I was ready use that stick to hit the bastard that was chasing me. I ran about two miles to my sister’s house; it was about 10:00 pm. I was freaking out and said someone was chasing me in my head; all I wanted was my dad. My sister called my dad and he was there to see things I don’t remember doing. I was so bad that I was all over the place mentally. I only know what my sister and dad told me, I was saying that I was possessed by something. Meanwhile Rick and our friends were looking for me, my sister called him and told him I was there with her and he couldn’t pick me up. Of course Rick was pretty pissed that he couldn’t get his wife home. The next morning I woke up on my sister’s couch wondering how I got there. My dad wasn’t mad he was just worried that something could’ve happened to me running in the street late at night and alone. I was shocked that I finally turned around, and I felt what was there. I had no idea that in severe depression Bipolar can produce delusions and hallucinations.

After that episode, things became pretty intense the notions of suicide were more intense.
I would ask what the best way to die would be. I didn’t want to drown, I’ve always been afraid of drowning and I refused to give in to that self-fulfilling prophecy. I would say I didn’t want to slit my writs because I didn’t want to see all the blood. I didn’t want to jump off of anything because my splattered body wouldn’t look very pretty. Hanging would be good, but if I hang the rope really high when I jump my neck would snap and I would probably die instantly; but it would be more of a horrific scene for the one who found me. My sweet obsession was so intense, my Prozac kicked in… kicked in… the wrong way. With any mental disorder there is no clear treatment, therefore someone like me would have to take meds that “might” work. If that drug didn’t work I would have to wean off one drug and slowly introduce a new drug into my body and mind. The label on all anti-depressant pill bottles state that one of the side effects “May increase the risk of suicidal thoughts or suicide.” Nice label, I was not interested in the label nor was I open to any of the suicide gateways I mentioned, I found the way I wanted to do it, I would overdose. My body wouldn’t be bloody, I wouldn’t be hanging or floating in water, I would simply look as if I just fell asleep.  

My kids were rarely home, I was so out of it that I couldn’t take care of them at times, they were with my mother-in-law, days, then weeks.  

On Monday, June 7, 2010

I didn’t plan that day, but I knew that morning I was going to kill myself. I called my mother-in-law and asked her if she could take my little girl to school and keep my sweet boy for the day. She asked how long should she keep them and I told her, for as long as she could. I kissed my babies good-bye held them tight and told them how much I loved them. In my mind I wasn’t saying good-bye for the day, I was saying good-bye forever.

Confidence Killer and the Fear of the Mirror

I’ve been feeling like shit the last few days, I feel inadequate and my value is depleting like a car after it has been driven for too many miles. I suppose this feeling started when I recognized a girl I went to school with, she was a grade ahead of me but she knew who I was and I knew who she was. She was somewhat tall, blonde hair blue eyes, she was sweet to her friends and she was the type the jocks would want to bring home to mama. But for girls like me there was never a sense of respect or even positive visual responses. Girls like me were jokes to girls like her, girls who were like this girl had parents there for them, wealthy and well off. This girl was never the type to look at a girl like me and at least have the idea in her mind to be kind. This type of girl never thought girls like me may be missing something; I was a waste of time, a joke, I was put on this world for the entertainment of sick-reality. My life was a reality show before reality shows ever existed. I don’t say this narcissistically, I say this because I was talked about always, and my brothers would come home confronting me with a new rumor. Hearing everything enticed me to fulfill those rumors, they scared me but they eventually became self-fulfilling-prophecies.
As I was dropping off my kiddos at school I seen this girl and she saw me, I smiled at her and she just snobbishly looked away. My first thought was, “Really, we’re adults now and you’re really going to stick with your old thoughts and judgment.” I’ve seen her several times and she still responds the same way. This is the most difficult part about living in this God-forsaken desert, you run into everyone you’ve known before.

So I don’t have the monetary gain like others, I don’t have the high-education like others and I didn’t have the support and opportunities others did. Before and during my black-outs I pulled out every credit card I had and maxed them out. I went crazy and tried fulfilling this horrific feeling of death, I put us in a shitty financial situation; on top of that the treatments I received were in the double digits of the thousands. Before my Bipolar wreck havoc in my life I was beginning my Bachelor’s degree in Business with the emphases on entrepreneurship and small businesses. I couldn’t handle the stress and I dropped out.

I know the foundation of my life wasn’t the best. I know that the stress and trauma of my childhood is a piece of my Bipolar puzzle. I know that the support I needed growing up was absent.
However, I have to remember all the experiences of my life. I have to remember that I went to hell and back, I fought demons and I am a fighter. I need to remind myself to claim me as worthy spirit on this earth. It becomes easy to forget the fact that no one else went through what I did, no one has the idea of the evil things I did and the torment that lived in me. My oldest brother called me the other night to talk to me about setting goals, like the goals we set for ourselves before we forgot about our dreams. I told him I was afraid, I lack the confidence to accomplish such amazing things and I am unworthy of such successes. “I cannot see how I can let go of the feeling that I will fail and I will fall down.” He reminded me of how strong our family is. He described to me the pain and memories we’ve shared watched and absorbed, he reminded me of how difficult it was for us to even survive. All four of us siblings grew up and had to mature earlier than other kids our age. Unfortunately, we grew-up in all the wrong ways.

We were never taught how hard and dangerous the world could be…
We were never taught the beauty and opportunity the world had for us either.

My brother told me of how most of our cousins, immediate, were depending on government care rather than working, they never considering the respect of gaining something on their own. Our other cousins have kids they leave behind for days while they take off to party; or they put their kids in the midst of the party with drug dealers and God knows who else. The rest of our cousins are either in prison or dead. We made it; we survived with life and respect-maybe not from others in this big world but for each other. A respect and knowledge that no matter what we will always be there for one another; albeit in an unorthodox way but we’re always there. If one of us is in trouble we will always come together.
The first night I was allowed have visitors while I was in the psych ward, all of my siblings showed up with my parents, every one of them. They didn’t understand why I did what I did or why I was where I was, but they were there. Sometimes we can be so pissed off at each other that we won’t speak for awhile but soon after we hash it out without holding back what’s on our hearts and minds.   
Although I can count on my siblings and parents, I never felt hope in telling them how depressed I really felt. I guess I didn’t really want to hear that they were praying to God for me, I didn’t want a pep talk nor did I even want their opinion. Sadly I felt the same way about Rick and his brother. It got to a point where all I wanted to do is joke about how crazy it would be to jump from the top of a high building. In my mind jumping off of a high-rise, was amazing I would feel like I was flying. I know people would say I would be falling, but to me, I would be flying down to peace, free as a bird and fearless as an immortal.
I would no longer share jokes and ideas of suicide with Rick or his brother; I became so much closer to suicide that talking about it was no longer conversation-it was obsession.
Prior to everything that began to develop I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror for a long time, even when putting on my make-up I would have to just take glances. The mirror was something I feared, where ever there was a mirror I could never stay there too long. The most horrific part about my reflection was the evil in my eyes, if I ever looked at my eyes I would get stuck there. One side of me, the real me, would be completely and horrifically overwhelmed with fear, a fear I cannot explain. The me in the mirror would push forth with such intense evil and hate; I would see a laughing evil that would tell me that I was too fucked up to live. I was never good enough to live; I was useless and held no value. I never felt pity, just hate. My eyes in the mirror were never pitiful looks of sadness, only aggressive violence. I was too fearful to see my eyes in those damn mirrors, especially when I was drunk or high; but I eventually started to like my eyes.
My eyes in the mirror began talking to me and I was actually verbally responding. My eyes became overcome by the eyes in the mirror, I was overcome by evil and I began my journey on the road of suicide.

Scared to Read & Write My Past... Scared to Look Back...Alone In My Mind

February 1, 2011

Today I am a little hesitant as to what I should say. All I can think about after reading that first part of my journal last night is how much I fear the seasons of spring and summer. As they come closer and closer I fear the memories that slowly creep up in me; especially when something triggers my thoughts. The simplest thing like looking at my daughter’s ballet pictures, take me back to a place I’d like to forget...I but cannot. My mind won’t let me forget. My thoughts affect my heart and make my stomach twist into knots, like the knots I tied on a rope, the same rope I used to try to hang myself with. All of this is so hard to say. It is truly difficult to look back to the memories that remind me of coming out of the psych ward-five days before Audrey’s ballet recital.
I cannot explain to you in clear words, the fear I felt checking into the psych ward and the fear of trying to function out of that unforgettable place.
I know that this post is so short compared to the other posts but I cannot handle writing my next journal entry. The next entry is from the morning I overdosed, my first suicide attempt.
I want to write about something from my past but I am so screwed up in my mind right now it's hard to look back at everything. When I look backward too much I begin to slope down into a pit of utter depression, a pit that is never easy to get out of and I end up stuck there for too long. I am already beginning to feel sad, not a silly sadness my kids express when they cannot play outside, but a sadness that I absolutely fear.

Losing Track of Time and Time Taking Me Back to Suicide

Today was a hard day, as I was compiling information to file my taxes I began writing my social, then I realized that I forgot not only my social security number I also forgot my driver’s license number, Rick’s social and the years my kids were born. All of this information is something that I could always remember when filling out papers for something or another. That is something very disappointing to me. Another devastating thing is that I kept thinking I needed to get all of my 2009 papers together; I was a little confused that all the receipts I filed are from 2010. I stopped and sort of freaked out inside, I looked on the bottom right hand side of my computer and seen 1/31/2011. I melted as if I was a chocolate bar on the hot-paved side walk in the middle of summer. I double checked the date on my phone and realized it is 2011, what the hell was wrong with me? When it was time for me to help my kiddos with their homework I got lost, I organize their homework so much that OCD takes over me. But not today, I messed everything up just by opening the homework folder; I had to step away when my kids asked my simple questions. I finally pulled myself together and pushed through the day.
I wanted to jump out of my skin, I would have said, “I wanted to jump out of my mind!” but I already did that and the results were very negative. Am I going out of my freaking mind or is this another result of my medication. Maybe this might be the result of the traumatic blackouts or is it the initial heart-shock of my first suicide attempt.
Suicide was familiar to me in so many ways. One of the biggest heroes of my life is my dad; he has been there for me in so many ways. He is always there for me and never judges me no matter what and I judge him not. Everything my dad has done negative or positive always outweighs what he has been through and what he has survived through. I want him to always know that he is someone worth living like. He knows what it feels like to want to exit life earlier than destined…he too has faced the same pain. It was around winter time that I was running around “the Mesa”, an area where several of my friends lived. I remember hanging out in the driveway of one of my friend’s house. My friend’s family member came out and handed me the phone telling me it was my mom. I thought that I was going to have to get me ass home, but it was completely different. My mom sounded shaky and intense, she told me my dad had an accident and she gave me an option to stay with my friend or stay at my aunt’s house. I chose my friend’s house, I didn’t know what happened but I knew something was intensely wrong; I was so worried and scared. I sat behind my friends garage smoking a cig, I wasn’t shivering in the cold winter air anymore…I was nothing. It turned out that my dad’s accident was not an accident; he shot himself on the chest, very close to his heart. My brother found him and that is all I know… For many years that accident was just that an accident, until my not so much of an accident. My dad was there for me, he walked through the door of my room at the psych ward and I knew he once knew what it all felt like. My dad was the only one at that point who could say he knew what it all truly felt like. He is my Daddy and I know I will always be his little girl… I am happy he never left me and I never left him.
However, watching my family walk through my psych ward door was bitter-sweet, I loved seeing them there but I know they didn’t quite understand why I put myself there. My depression loved me and I was falling in love with it…
This is where I started my Bipolar journey…
In May we had a huge island themed party, I made four birthday cakes and worked my ass off getting everything ready. We set up the pool, put up a beautifully decorated canopy, set out the tiki torches and of course decorated the tiki bar. Rick built this huge brick grill and he prepared all of the meat and I made all of the drinks for the kids and for the adults. We went totally all out for this party. It was awesome we had so much fun everyone came through and brought different sides and drinks. We must have had over three trash cans filled with beer and coolers. The kids ran around in bathing suits enjoying the water, music and fun. Rick and my brother hung a huge drop-cloth from our bedroom window up stairs and put on a UFC fight using a projector. The whole thing was awesome, I was fine until people I didn’t know started showing up, and I pretty much had a panic attack. I asked our cousin if he could tell them to leave, especially because they didn’t bring any beer, they just wanted to bum off of use. I especially don’t like people I don’t know around my kids at my house or anywhere.
When it was time for everyone to sleep or should I say pass out, I was still wide awake wondering why in the hell I was still awake, at that time I was taking Ambien, so popped one and finally knocked out around four in the morning. That three day weekend was awesome, our cousins, whom we love more than anything, stayed with us all weekend and hung out with us; my kids loved them being there with us. I will always remember the fun, the excitement, love and sheer joy of living life. I cannot explain how much our fun we had at our beautiful Christmas party and up until after Memorial Day. After that is when my life started to go to hell, those memories are memories I will hold dear the events afterward would change my life so much so that I didn’t know who I was.
I started a journal when I first started Prozac and Ambien, I seen hope at first but slowly I got worse. I began to tell Rick and his brother that the highest point of the house was the chimney and if I could jump and land on something just right I would die. I would ask myself if I could reach the beam in the living room (about twenty feet high, maybe more); I wondered if I could screw in a hook strong enough to hold a rope; but not just a rope, me hanging from that rope. I would imagine what it would be like to just dangle; I wondered if I would die instantly having to jump so high to hang-would my neck snap? Or would I hang watching the aerial view of the living room fade slowly away from my eyes. I didn’t think of slitting my wrist, yet… The thoughts got so strong that I feared nothing, I was romantically involved with suicide and I wrote in my journal, “Suicide Looks beautiful”.
I was consumed with suicide and I became very depressed. One of the most difficult nights was when I went one night without my Ambien and I freaked out. This is where writing about everything becomes very difficult, I have never really read this journal I am about to quote out of and I just hope I can make it through this.
My penmanship is chicken scratch and it is disturbing to look at.

 June 6, 2010

 “Don’t want to but I need to, I want to fucking jump out the window, I want to fucking DIE. It’s 2:21 am, I wanted to drink my wine, get merrily advantage of by “friends”. I smoked weed so it would help me sleep but without Ambien I feel like a suicidal Insomniac. I mean I am practically writing in the dark right now, I have little light, but enjoy light to shadow my hand as it dances psychotically across the page. Fuck this I want my Ambien.”
This is all I can write… until tomorrow.

If there are any typos please forgive me, I cannot read what I just wrote.