livelearnbreakstuff-blog

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Chapter 7: Go With the Roaches

Three years ago, when I came to the city I’m living in now, I moved with my best friend Cody from college. We were pretty great roommates for a while, with a few exceptions. He thought I left the dishes in the sink too long, I thought he was too bossy, etc. Then I had my second manic episode and he helped me through that, so he really proved to be a great friend as well as roommate. He didn’t move out, or worse-- make me move out because of it, for which I was endlessly grateful, because I HAD been kicked out due to my illness in college. We lived in this nice little apartment that we got for a steal in a rich part of town. It was within walking distance to everything-- a park, an Indian restaurant, a liquor store, two good bars, a Piggly Wiggly...who could ask for more? There was only one problem. 

artwork by knold at deviantart.com 

http://www.deviantart.com/art/roach-19813422

Roaches. Once you’ve seen one crawling across a plate that you have eaten on, there is no returning. You either throw the plate out or hold back the gagging when you scoop some spaghetti onto its surface. Soap and water doesn’t erase that image.The roaches were relentless. Cody tried to squash one with my shoe once and I yelled at him to stop-- why ruin a perfectly good shoe?? Here, use this Rolling Stone magazine!

The year lease came to a close just in time for Cody’s friend Steve to decide he wanted to move down from New York and live with us. I tried to convince them that the roaches really weren’t that bad, and that they COULD be exterminated-- we’d just have to call some better technicians. I even offered to make the dining room into a third bedroom with drapes for doors. It could’ve worked! But in the end, I, for the first time of many, got persuaded into changing my living situation to something less than what it was before. 

That change came in the form of a house on the other side of town. It was in the heat of summer and I tried to make the best of it.  It was still walking distance to a bar! A dive bar with its own roach problem, but a place to go get a beer and hang out nevertheless! It was actually going well, that is until a lawyer gave us a termination of lease letter with one month’s notice. The house was to be torn down to make way for a condo-- this was an “up and coming” neighborhood. 

After scrambling to find a house, we finally ended up in another part of town. Nothing was within walking distance, but it was a house and a place to live. Soon, Steve’s girlfriend moved in and there were four of us. It was going okay. Then the year lease  ended and Steve and Amy moved out. This was right around the time I had my third manic episode which took place on vacation in North Carolina, on a trip with Cody and his friends from New York. It was bad one-- I hadn’t been taking my meds regularly and I let the mania go too far without doing anything about it. It put a serious strain on my relationship with Cody-- I actually managed to avoid him for almost two months. So, we didn’t really get a chance  to talk about who would be replacing Steve and Amy. Last minute, Cody found someone, another guy named James, who was quiet and kept to himself for the most part. 

Not much long after, James met a girl and fell pretty hard for her. This girl turned out to be two-timing him with a guy named Rick, which he found out while he was out eating Mexican with some mutual friends of Rick’s, and-- Rick himself. When the subject came up of who they were dating, they somehow found out it was the same girl-- and voila, instant friendship!

So I was on the toilet early one morning when Cody knocked and said, “Hey, Rick’s on his way to check out the place,” and my thought was, “Who the fuck is Rick?” but I just finished peeing and said okay. Apparently he had been invited to come live with us. Cheaper rent. He had this big fucking truck that he insisted on keeping in the driveway because it could be broken into easily. I wish it would, so then it would’t be in my way every damn day. 

And now it is present day. I have one roommate who has a problem with leaving the porch light on because he’s a cheapskate, so I come home and fumble with my keys in the dark.  Another who constantly leaves the seat up and doesn’t flush, and also leaves his beard hair in the sink causing it to clog, and another who comes home at four AM drunk and blocks everyone in the driveway. My beautiful cast iron pot is sitting on the stove with moldy beans on the inside of it because one of them can’t pick up after himself and I’m too stubborn to clean it myself. I’ve heard all the intimate details of Rick’s sex life, and, I’m pretty sure that girl is faking it...Rick took off in Cody’s car the other day without asking.There are strangers constantly staying over at my house. And I’m turning into a whiny complainer. Everything seems to piss me off lately. 

My living situation sucks, and it’s my fault. I let it happen! Never back down on things just to please other people. When you have to choose between a happy life with a few roaches, or a less happy life with none, go with the roaches. 

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Chapter 6: Anger and Conversational Traps

art by maruhana-bachi, Deviantart.com

I wouldn’t say I’m an angry person. Over time I’ve learned to ignore the beast when it’s throwing one of its tantrums, inside my chest. My little toddler kicking and screaming but I pinch its arm real hard in the parking lot of the grocery store-- because what would people think,  if they saw me lose my temper? 

A lot of people don’t care what they would think if they saw. One of my roommates is the type of person whose anger outbursts are frequent; not the low heat, simmering kind. He gets so mad when I leave the dishes in the sink overnight, or when he doesn’t have a space in the driveway because 3 other people also want to park there sometimes, or somebody left the dryer on the wrong setting,  or when I leave the porch light on (because, selfishly, I prefer to see my keys when I come home at night.) Basically any time I walk in a room he’s got something negative to say. FUCK! SHIT! GOD DAMN IT, I TOLD YOU!! He almost got fired at his job because he threw something at a coworker. He takes the role of pissed off manager wherever he goes. It’s like okay, whatever, Dad.  Except my real dad wouldn’t give a shit about any of those things. 

The other day the guy I’m dating came to pick me up to go get some tacos. He pulled in the driveway, briefly blocking it. My roommate arrived home at about the same time and parked on the street. He slammed the door to his truck, rudely demanding, “Who is that? You can’t keep parking in the driveway!” as he glared at me and went inside. I could’ve shouted back, “I can do whatever I want-- I’m paying rent too, you fucker! Besides, I hardly ever park in the driveway!” but I nodded and left with my date, letting that resentment fester. 

People deal with anger in different ways. I bottle things in. I have problems saying “no” or “you’re being a little bitch” to people I care about, and even people I don’t care about. When things keep happening that I don’t like, I let it slowly boil on the inside until it reaches the edge and spills over. And then it comes out of my eyes and runs down my face leaving trails of mascara, as I throw objects at the wall-- or worse. 

My boss talks too much. He’s a nice person, and I would never talk negatively about him--except for right now-- oops! I work for a little start-up company and do freelance work. He prefers me to come to the office and do my work there, as opposed to just doing it at home-- reasonable. But then he talks through whatever I’m doing. 

I’ve never witnessed someone who could talk that much. It goes on and on and on and on-- he’s what I call a “conversational trapper.” It’s hard paying attention during conversational traps--he’s saying something about his great aunt, or Belize, while I try to juggle typing on my laptop and laughing at his jokes. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to chat; Belize sounds fascinating-- his great aunt less so--although I’m sure she was a nice enough lady. I don’t want to be rude, so I just nod, “Mhm. Yeah,” 

The other day I had to stop to make a phone call and he TALKED THROUGH my call.  I just walked out of the room, hearing his voice trailing off on another tangent but losing volume the further I went.  It was already a stressful call- I was trying to get in touch with my college advisors and they kept putting me on hold. I felt the water rising towards the brim. But here’s the thing: I never once asked him to stop talking. 

Dealing with anger is a constant struggle for me, mainly because I don’t know how to let it out in the right ways. I don’t know how to say, “No. This isn’t working” and assert myself. I’m living in a situation that I don’t like and I’m letting it remain the same. I’m putting my head down and closing my eyes hoping that when I open them things will have taken a turn for the better! Time to move that pot from the stove. 

Time to grow a pair. 

-S

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Quick to judge, slow to understand.

A guy named Hal, among others probably

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Chapter 5: A Shout Out to Supportive People

I met up with a recent acquaintance last night to see a show. Her and her boyfriend, who plays bass in my band, are really nice people. We got to talking and somehow ended up on a tangent about mental health. She had suffered from depression. After hearing her open up about it, I did what I quite recently promised myself I didn’t want to do anymore: I talked openly about my bipolar episodes.

It has always taken me aback, the few times it has happened, when people respond to you as if you’re telling them you have a cold or low blood pressure. And that’s how she received it, which was a relief. Past experiences have led me to believe that people will react with a hint of fear, as if at any moment you’re going to go apeshit and and have a meltdown or run over somebody with your car. I mean it could happen… anything is possible, I suppose!

But there was no fear. She gave me a hug and promised she’d be around if I needed anything. Wow. I LOVE people who are supportive and don’t make you feel like an alien. Chemical imbalances in the brain are not a choice or a sign of a flawed personality; manic depression is a genetic trait. So thank you, everyone who is supportive and says fuck you to stigmas.

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Chapter 4: Hogwarts

To quote Carrie Fisher, one of the inspirations for this blog– “If my life were not funny, it would just be true. And that would be unacceptable.”

Art by matsuo1326, 

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Hogwarts-190957772

It was December of 2013– a week before finals in my senior fall semester. I had, several months previously, ended a tumultuous 2 year long relationship that flung me into my first major depression. It was a very controlling relationship that brought out the worst in me and bred a lot of resentment. Our mutual inability  let go of the relationship made us a splendid match. 

“I think I have manic depression, “ I remember him saying in his gloomy despondent  way that he often had. He was charming; that’s what drew me to him– and he seemed to be well liked by everyone. But he was moody. There were times when he hated everything. I didn’t know what “manic depression” really was, but the way he said it made me think that he must be right. His uncle had it, he said, and his grandfather. But I would find out what it is for myself, the hard way, eventually. 

I find it ironic that only a few months later, after the breakup, I was the one actually diagnosed with bipolar disorder– not him. I also find it irritating– because if he had suffered a psychotic break like me, he wouldn’t be so smug and vindicated now. In any case, right before we broke up I keyed his car because he called my dad lazy.  I should’ve known then that something was wrong. I don’t lose control like that– I mean, it takes a lot for me to lose my temper.  People breakup and get sad for a few weeks but I was something all together different. I was acting out– drinking heavily, smoking a lot of weed. I went to a doctor and got prescribed Zoloft and Xanax– on the assumption that I just suffered from depression and anxiety. And thats when it really started happening. Between the months of September and early December, these things occurred:

I bought a cockatiel. I was working part time at a cajun restaurant, but the money I was making was simply to help my parents pay my rent at the student housing I was living in. I had little money of my own, but the $80 pet bird and $100 cage were so important to me that money was not a worry. What also wasn’t a concern for me was that A) pets were not permitted in the lease, and B) I didn’t consult with either of my two roommates, who I was sure wouldn’t be bothered by a high pitched screeching bird throughout the day. His name was Joey. Joey flew away one day when I walked outside with him on my shoulder, stoned, and I actually broke down and cried. After much wandering the neighborhood and calling his name, I eventually gave up and did what any sane person would do– I went back to the pet store and bought Joey’s successor Phoebe. Phoebe now lives with my parents, as they now have custody. 

I went to TJ max one day soon after, and bought about 10 new sweaters. All the same style. I used my mom’s credit card for that. It was going to be my new “look”– to go along with my new red hair color that I had professionally done and was also paid for by my mother’s credit card. 

I had a wide array of male friends, all of whom I had sex with.  Guy number one was a local farmer boy with a tall lanky figure and a blond fu manchu. He grew his own weed and had a tattoo of his Scottish family crest on his arm. Guy number two was a drummer from Georgia who seemed to care about me very much but who I two (three?)-timed by also seeing guy number three, a funny guitar playing Adderall-loving pothead with a great smile–  who happened to live at a dealer’s house so I could keep on getting high! All of these guys, by the way, I saw at around the same time, in the same small town. Whether or not they figured it out I was too high up to notice. I’m sure they did.

My roommate started getting really pissed at me for what I thought were small insignificant things, but in retrospect she probably had some warrant. Everything was about me and how much better I felt. I was the woman. I was figuring myself out.  I was skipping all of my classes. I didn’t need to sleep. I was playing guitar and singing loudly at three in the morning– and things felt GREAT! And it got a lot better. 

I was to play a show  with my band at a local venue.  I decided I was going to bring an empty wine bottle up with me on the stage and use it as a prop. After the show was over, I can remember looking around and thinking that everything looked so crystal clear. I brought said wine bottle over to the bartender and incoherently asked that she keep it behind the bar and have all the bands who play there to sign it. She had no idea what I was talking about. That night I went home with a one track mind, contacting any and all people on Facebook to “Sign the bottle!!” I wrote messages to people about it I didn’t even know. My ex boyfriend, whose name was Steve, used to be the bassist in my band and would sometimes write to booking agents and sign it with an S. Well, since my name also begins with an S, I contacted one of those booking agents about the bottle and signed the letter with an S. Steve got a call from the booking agent, who thought Steve had lost his mind, and Steve got livid and called my mom to tell her, “See? This is what happens when she drinks! I told you she has a problem!” (which I think was an incorrect statement because never had drinking caused me to sign strange letters to booking agents with his initial.) I woke up the next morning to my parents standing over my bed with fear and confusion in their eyes. The had travelled 7 hours to get there. 

I didn’t guess this at the time, but my parents’ goal was to get me to my therapist who would analyze me and give them the okay to get me in a psych ward as soon as possible. But I was doing anything and everything to botch that–in my mind, I had figured it all out. It had started the previous night when I received some Harry Potter-related snap chats. So naturally, I was convinced that my college was modeled after Hogwarts. The most gifted students, like myself, were chosen to be witches and wizards and sent on to graduate. Today would be my graduation day and I was convinced that everyone was in on “the secret”. Somehow my parents set me loose long enough to wander into a random Fine Arts Building class where the professor was handing out term papers. I didn’t find mine in the pile, but that didn’t stop me from taking a seat and attending a class I didn’t belong to. 

I finally did get to the hospital but I still thought it was some sort of elaborate plan for my “graduation”. I was supposed to have been at a performance for a school music ensemble, so I searched through the psych ward’s closet of donated clothes to dress myself for the show– saying things like, “Hmm, yeah this will have to do,” and “tonight’s my night.” The performance I was supposed to attend, I was sure, would be my graduation. 

When I met my doctor, who had jet black hair and a thick Spanish accent, something looked familiar about her face. I studied it as she asked me questions regarding who I was, where I came from, what year is it, etc. Then I figured it out– she was JK Rowling!! It all made sense. She was the one in charge of this whole scheme! The hair dye, the accent-- it didn't fool me! I wrote her a long letter and handed it to her, insisting that she read it. “You think I’m this person?” she asked. I responded, “Is the sky blue?” to which she responded, gesturing toward the window, “No, it’s grey– look for yourself.” And sure enough, the sky was a light blank grey, with snow flakes falling gently on the ground. Just like it would be at Hogwarts. 

And that is the abridged version of my first manic episode. 

-S

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Chapter 3: The Beginning of a Hospital-Free Year

New years eve is never an exciting holiday for me. So you wait till its midnight and you watch a large ball drop...very boring and I usually see it as an excuse to get schnockered. But this year is different-- this year is the opportunity for a fresh start. 2017 will be untarnished by hospital visits. I am confident because I just have a good feeling about it...not a manic feeling but a good feeling. I'm on meds, I'm watching my behavior, and I'm not going to break again! It's my new years resolution. I'll be sipping my drinks slowly and ordering ginger ales in between like the good bipolar girl that I am. Happy new year to everyone and good health to all!

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Perfect for my last post

this user has manic depression

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Chapter 2: Social Media Rules for the Manic Depressive

As a person whose moods fluctuate from top-of-the-world high to hide-me-under-a-giant-fucking-rock-low, I have noticed that my interactions on social media are just as bipolar as I am. At times I have severely abused my social media access–abuse which has led to much regret when I snap out of the mania. So I have developed a set of rules to help keep me in line in the very public world of Facebook, Instagram, etc.:

1. NO DRINK AND POSTS. This rule could apply to everyone - bipolar or not. And, if you’re drinking and your'e manic depressive, uh…sounds like someone hasn’t been listening to their doctors! Drinking basically voids your meds, and your euphoric buzz could easily turn into a week of feeling shitty– it could for anyone, but especially you, blah, blah, etc. But, we live in the real world, and in the real world bipolar people drink alcohol sometimes. Just, please, do yourself a favor and hide your laptop and smart phone if you’re gonna do it! If you find yourself getting ready to post that long winded opinion or that squinty eyed barroom selfie you’re so adamant on sharing, count to 50 and then go order that large pineapple black olive pizza like a normal person under the influence.

2. Set a limit to how many times and for how long you check in. It might just be me, but I could scroll forever on Facebook– especially late at night when I’m hit by mania the hardest. The longer I’m on there, the more of a chance there is that I’ll say something. I have to learn how to not say things. Not saying things can be a good thing.

3. Do not get on social media when you know you’re manic. When you know you’re manic, it’s too late. Once, when I was new to this whole thing, I let my mania get out of control for the second time. This was when I went off my meds right after I got diagnosed. I remember having my Facebook feed up, sitting Indian style on the messy hardwood floor of my bedroom, with 5 private message boxes open. I was typing furiously about things that seemed so profound. I was inviting people I hardly knew to come party with me. On a Sunday night. The strange and out there things I said made me cringe as I looked back over them months later. So let me repeat- IF YOU FEEL MANIC, it might be a good idea to drop off for a while. Your Facebook or Twitter or whatever will be there when you get back. Getting on any type of social media when I’m manic seems to fuel the fire. But, if you just don’t give a shit what others think, do whatever you want..except, no. Never mind. Get off Facebook, dummy! Trust me, not everything has to be shared to everyone. Just my personal long winded opinion. See what I did there?

4. Make a decision. If you have deactivated your account more times than you can count on one hand, you might need to make a hard decision. It seems like you are conflicted in whether or not you want to keep that Facebook. Your boyfriend dumped you, and you wanted to get away from seeing pictures of him and his stupid boat he got on Craigslist– that he bought in a snow storm– and that you’re secretly hoping has a hole in it– so you deactivated it. You got to feeling better again, so you go back on. Then you deactivated again because peoples’ often political or braggy posts are getting you down. And so on and so forth– but do you really want to keep doing that? Maybe you should decide if constantly having your life visible to everyone, and everyone’s life visible to you, is beneficial to your mental health.

Maybe you’ll be one of those people that just gets on for holidays and birthdays, or not get on at all. Maybe you’ll delete it permanently. Maybe you’ll say “fuck it” and post whatever and whenever. Just pick a road. Stop with the inconsistencies. And stop telling everyone on your feed that you’re “leaving Facebook” if you’re just going to get back on a month later. Make a decision, and stick to it. By now you should know what works and what doesn’t!

These are rules for myself. Not for you. If they work for you, great! Later, crazies!

[livelearnbreakstuff-blog]

Chapter 1: Introduction

Art credit– MonoriRogue, deviantart.com

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Tribute-to-Carrie-Fisher-653812364

Carrie Fisher died two days ago, and it was like a punch in the gut. I don’t ever get all depressed or hung up when famous people die, because I don’t know them. It’s sad, yes– but it’s the kind of sad that’s far away, like the kind of sad you might feel  if  you found out your high school boyfriend’s uncle died. Yeah, he really seemed like a nice guy– and he had a pretty great sweater vest,  if you remember correctly from that one holiday dinner you attended. It’s distant, like the amount of space between your living room TV screen and the set of the Millennium Falcon that’s behind it in the Empire Strikes Back. But this one I felt. I felt it like a shitty disturbance in the force. 

I’m going to keep this pretty anonymous, but some things I will disclose.  I’m 24, and when I was in my senior year of college I was  diagnosed with bipolar disorder. That means my moods are erratic and sometimes I get so manic that my thoughts become psychotic– out of touch with reality. Despite having been to the psych ward more times than I’d care to admit, reading Carrie Fisher’s books made me feel normal. She had a caring attitude towards the mentally ill and a sense of humor towards her own illness that was inspiring. As someone who was recently diagnosed, I searched for accounts of people that shared similar experiences of depression, mania, and psychosis. None that I found were better than what she had written.  I cannot express how important it was to find someone who was proof that it does get better. Carrie Fisher was that proof; with no hint of shame or embarrassment she heroically lead the way for many who felt lost and alone in a world where there is still, amazingly, a stigma. 

The past few years have not been my best. Three years ago, I thought JK Rowling was my psychiatrist and that my college was modeled after Hogwarts. Two years ago, I thought I spoke to my late grandmother in the afterlife. One year ago, I drank myself into a psychosis so bad that I told everyone that my mom was a famous folk singer and got a tattoo of a shoe on my arm. Then I got so depressed about everything that I quit my job and dropped off the face of the earth (AKA slept on my parents’ couch) for two months. 

Today, I accept who I am. I accept what I am–and some of it is hard to talk about, but I’m going to try. And I’m going to write it all (well, most of it) down for whoever needs to read something honest.  Carrie Fisher did that– unfortunately she is absent now–but she got people like me to laugh and feel better again.   Rest in peace, Princess! May the force be with you, always.