#maybe my mom was onto something all these years telling me i'm bipolar

[suffercerebral]

me having gone to bed at 6 am every day for the past week and generally spiraling mentally while rotting in bed waking up this morning: a 4 mile hike in the heat is a really good idea right now, and while we're at it let's start like 3 art projects

[embracesufferdestroy]

Journal

Irt the tags on my previous post: I have always struggled with reality/memory issues, of course. A lot of the time, especially when I was younger, like maybe 11 or so, I had this very strong feeling that I was lying about or exaggerating the things that were happening to me. I wasn't sure how to convey my feelings to my parents, so I basically just said something to the effect of "I'm a liar. I think I'm lying to you." And man, they held onto that for years. Any time I had a concern they would just tell me I was lying because I "admitted" to it.

Years later I was in a psych ward at 15. I had a complete nervous breakdown. I couldn't handle the stress of my own traumas, school, or what was going on in my head. When I was in there they threw the DSM-5 at me, diagnosed me with everything from bipolar to depression with psychotic tendencies to anxiety/general nervousness. They had me on 3, 4, 5, I can't even remember how many medications. It completely screwed with me, and I'm convinced that all that medicine permanently fucked up my brain chemistry in some way.

I don't remember much of my time there, but I did learn in my 20s that particular ward was shut down due to malpractice, which didn't surprise me. They were overloaded with patients, all the children were mistreated. They were over sedating 5 and 6 year olds. The youngest boy there was 3. They would keep the patients, children, away from their parents by moving them throughout different facilities without their knowledge. The final thing that got them investigated and shut down, I don't even really feel comfortable saying. I just feel really bad for the poor girl, and I think about her so very often. The nurses were straight bullies and my therapist, she did not like me. Whenever I couldn't speak, which I'm now assuming Alice was fronting back then (makes sense - that place was awful, triggering, and stressful) she would get mad at me and say I was being uncooperative & that if I couldn't share my traumas I didn't deserve to be there. If my stories or memories or feelings ever changed, she would call me a liar and accuse me of making things up again.

All that is to say at 15, I was called a liar again & a therapist reinforced this with my parents, which made me feel utterly helpless. I was somehow a liar, yet I was forced to be on several medications and had a litany of possible diagnoses. I felt like I went more nuts in there than when I went in. Afterward my parents made a point to make me feel guilty about ever needing to be there in the first place. Despite knowing everything I went through as a child, they didn't think I needed therapy at all and that I was making all my symptoms up. They completely took me off of everything cold turkey when I was 17, claimed I didn't need it. That sent me on a downward spiral that took a while to recover from. My parents took a lot of missteps when it came to dealing with my issues, and while I don't hate them for it now, I have never forgiven them.

I hated my parents a lot during this time in my life, I felt that they didn't care about me, and sometimes I still think they don't care. I have a better relationship with them now, and I am pretty close with my dad. I just don't think they understood me or knew what to do with me. It was much easier to declare I was some kind of attention hungry hypochondriac than to come face to face with the fact that I was screwed up, and that they screwed up by putting me in that ward in the first place

I also feel the need to clarify that my bio parents are divorced. My mom, the one I was raised with up until I was about 11, was the one that caused all my trauma. I haven't spoken to her in years. My parents, on the other hand, are my dad and stepmom. They are better people, and not malignantly abusive, but due to a lot of circumstances they were just kinda neglectful. The only reason I went into therapy in the first place is because I had a panic attack so bad in the gym I actually passed out & ended up at the hospital. I hate hospitals.

[pattytacuri]

“

"Remember this feeling of hopelessness, sadness, desperation, and loneliness. You’ve hit rock bottom but won’t remain here. So most likely you’ve never been loved by a hand that’s touched you. That’s okay. You are a fucking Incan Queen. Fuck all those fucking dudes. You’re worthy and if you end up alone with your cats, That’s okay. Totally cool. Fuck everyone else. Also, slow down on the drinking. You need your liver. You don’t have to repeat your dad’s story. You are more than your trauma. Don’t settle for less than you deserve. You deserve to be loved, like you need to be loved and maybe you need to do the job yourself. No one else can do it for you. You can’t keep crying or dwelling over the same shit over again. Use it to inspire you and be a badass bitch. These motherfuckers will see one day. Regret the day they forgot about you or left you or treated you like shit. All bitches will be a fucking distant memory one day. Keep going Queen! You got this . Maybe sadness will come, loneliness will be a constant but find the strength within yourself to keep going. You’re a writer . You’ll be like Zelda, Sylvia but won’t go insane or kill yourself. You’re amazing. You were wanting to find something tonight and it was your strength to be alone. No one can give you that. Make a plan for your escape. Love yourself. Love your kids. Love your friends. Love your parents. Everyone else can go to fucking hell. Don’t waste too much energy on them. Amazing things are going to happen this year and next year. Just watch. You won’t be as sad someday soon. "

I wrote the above in March of 2019 in a drunken haze at some bar during a major depressive episode. I read this today and was rather introspective. Today I finally came out of the suicidal ideation mode I was in for the past few days. Reading this gave me hope that no matter how low I feel, I will always have a voice in me to be strong and keep going. There will always be something to look forward to or get excited about. 😊 Like today I got so excited about sour patch energy drinks and cuatro leches cake! I was so excited I got a weird look from my coworker. I had to find a way to tone down my excitement so I wouldn't be accused of being manic. I know I'm not like a "normal" adult because duh I'm bipolar and have BPD and my feelings are intense but I don't want to be "normal". When I was in high school, I had this shirt that said "normal is boring" and honestly it is. I mean obviously I have to maintain some kind of semblance of normal at work but outside of it...idgaf anymore. Lately I look at Britney Spears Instagram and I'm so inspired by how raw and free she's in her posts. I understand the perspective of people who are concerned about her but I'm like...damn I get it. Constantly functioning under society's constraints and pressures of who you should be when you're untamed and wild at heart makes you miserable. The past five years have been this journey to finally accepting and loving this version of me. The one that's weird AF, eccentric, spontaneous, my crazy creativity, mood swings, stretchmarked body, cringy taste of music, etc, etc. My mom made me laugh today with her take on gratitude but it made me think as I'm writing this post. I'm grateful for everything that's happened the past 5 years even the shit that's felt tragic or heart breaking cause it's brought me to this moment of coming out of a really bad depressive episode filled with gratitude for my life, contentment, excitement for what's to come next, and an eagerness to keep going. Life may get lonely being eccentric and crazy AF me but at least I'm no longer this miserable person living for the acceptance or the validation from others. LIKE I said in 2019, I'm an Incan Queen 👸 and fuck everyone who doesn't like me. 🤣😭🥰 nah...I guess the more mature thing my therapist taught me was to accept that not everyone will be for me and that's okay. And my mom always tells me, "don't wish bad things onto them, let them go and move forward" . I hope I'm this excited as I'm stocking product tomorrow for 8 hours 🤣🤣😭😭 .

[bakugou-ou]

Ik I'm anon and all, but I don't wanna get off it because the embarrassment would probably make it worse. I'm just tired of life… mines is pretty useless if you ask me, and according to everyone else who if ever met, I'm ugly too, I wouldn't kill myself because I'm too much of a coward to do that, but I don't know what I wanna do with my life and I can never be happy without someone ruining it That's why you and other creators' story helps me, it makes me think about my dram life I'll never get

Listen, friendo, whoever you are, you’re not ugly, and not useless. You don’t need to come off anon if you don’t want to, I get it. This is gonna get v personal here in a sec, so I’m putting the rest of this down under a cut in case no one gives a shit about my personal life and doesn’t wanna see my tragic anime backstory, but I’m sharing it with you because you said that you like my writing. This is the story of how I ended up running this blog, it’s got lots of talk about suicide, mentions of rape. It’s not pretty, so read at your own risk. Also, it’s long.

When I was four years old, I tried to jump off the balcony of my apartment, I wanted to die. It wasn’t a kid doing a stupid thing, I literally thought if I fall from this height and hit my head on the ground, I will die and then went for it. I fell onto a 7ft tall cinder block mailbox on the way down, four feet below my balcony, crawled off of it, and walked back upstairs to my parents like nothing had happened. 

What was wrong that someone barely past toddlerhood wanted to kill themselves over? I don’t know, maybe it was just that my parents were fighting all the time and hated each other, maybe it was because I have the genes for it. More on that last bit later.

When I was six, I tried to throw myself in front of a car, thinking that if a small child like myself got hit by a car going 25+ mph, I’d die. The driver hit the brakes, I played it off like I’d tripped into the road, no one knew how I really felt. When I’d told my parents I wanted to die, they thought I was being dramatic, they didn’t think a kid my age even knew what that meant, the finality of it. But I knew, and I craved it.

When I was eight, I tried to hang myself in my older sister’s bedroom with her sheets. She found me, took me down before I blacked out, and we never spoke about it again after that night. I was pissed with my sister for saving me, I cried and punched her as she held onto me.

When I was twelve, I tried to eat a bottle of Xanax, thinking it would kill me. It didn’t, it just made me really, really fucking sick. Not sick enough to go to the hospital, but very sick. I had no lasting organ damage, but I still wanted to die.

When I was fourteen, my boyfriend dumped me over the phone on a day he was supposed to come to my house, and ignored me while I cried. He had me on speaker phone, actually, and his friends were laughing about it and I could hear them. I could hear him laughing along with them. So, I decided to eat a bottle of asprin for dinner a couple of weeks later. I was stupid, it didn’t work, and I was hospitalized in the mental ward for 2 weeks.

When I was seventeen, I had just left an abusive relationship, graduated high school, and my mom told me that my ex raping me repeatedly for 9 months was my fault and that I was asking for it by continuing to date him the whole time. I was too scared to leave, I had been told by a counselor at school that no one would believe me. I tried to eat all of my antidepressants. I was hospitalized for 3 weeks in the mental ward.

When I was eighteen, I tried to do that same thing again, in conjunction to another thing my mom said about my abuser. My cousin had been raped while studying abroad, and she was talking about poor cousin, your poor cousin, it’s so traumatic, but when I mentioned that I’d been abused for three quarters of a year and no one batted an eye, she told me I was being selfish, and that my time for being the victim was over. How dare I detract from my cousin. So, again, I tried to eat a bottle of pills. I was hospitalized for one week in the psych ward.

Earlier this year, at the age of twenty, I was hospitalized because I felt like I was going to slit my wrists if I stayed home. So I checked myself into the hospital. I was there for a week while my doctor tried to find better meds for me because clearly mine weren’t working. My mom had told me that she was ashamed of my sexuality and my gender identity, and the rape issue came up again, with her saying I wanted it, that I let it happen.

I have bipolar II, borderline personality disorder, OCD, PTSD, generalized anxiety disorder, and selective eating disorder. A lot is messed up with me. I get the anxiety from my mother, and the bipolar II from my father. The PTSD was a gift from my ex boyfriend, and the rest I just ended up with.

When I was a little kid, I loved books; my father read all sorts of books to me, all the time. Artemis Fowl was the first series we read, then Harry Potter, then my mother read me the Chronicles of Narnia, then my father read me A Series of Unfortunate Events. We also read other books, things that weren’t series. I loved reading, and I wanted to write things that made people feel the way I felt about the stuff I read. 

Both of my parents are naturally talented writers. At the age of six, I began to write fan fiction for Harry Potter. I was way too young to be on the internet, but I was online writing fanfics on snitchseeker. Some of the only validation I found in my life was from random strangers on the internet, encouraging me to continue writing and complimenting my plot lines, even if my grammar and spelling were atrocious; on the internet, no one knows you’re a little kid writing Drarry fanfic.

I was a really athletic kid, so I didn’t spend all my time writing, but a good chunk of my free time was spent writing if I wasn’t surfing, playing soccer, or skateboarding. I didn’t have a lot of friends, I wasn’t likable, apparently, and I had a really hard time in school. I got into a lot of fights because people picked on me, but I was always the one who got in trouble for defending myself. It pissed me off. I developed issues with authority. I wrote in composition books to escape all the crap around me.

By the time I turned 11, writing was my life. I had just moved to California from Hawaii, my life was basically turned upside down, and I was miserable. So, I made a myspace account, wrote fanfic on there, and threw myself headlong into it. I have a fanfiction.net account I’ve long since forgotten my username and password for, but it’s out there with dramione fanfic, sasusaku, things that I liked at the time. I need to escape everything happening around me. My dad, my best friend, wasn’t anywhere near me, my mom was a bitch, and my demented grandmother moved in with us. It was miserable.

By the time I was 15, the only hobby I had outside of practicing for orchestra, was writing. I laid in bed on days off and just sat on my laptop, writing. I stopped publishing things after I got a mean comment once, my first one ever. It bruised the ego I didn’t even have so badly that I refused to publish anything for three years.

When I was 18, I published my first fanfic in 4 years. It was a Criminal Minds fanfic, featuring an OC and Spencer Reid. I was so fucking proud of it, and while lots of people loved it, a lot of people said mean shit. So, I posted Loki fanfic, which got infinitely more love, and then I did an alternate version of my Criminal Minds fic, that one got even more hate than the original. Then I published a Wallander fanfic. I haven’t touched them in 3 years, despite people asking me for more.

Up until this time last month, I never showed my writing to anyone. I kept everything to myself, hidden, I was ashamed of it. It is my only coping mechanism, but I couldn’t share it with anyone. My parents had my computer passwords up until I was about 16, sometimes they’d look through my text files and come to me later and tell me how amazing my writing was, and encourage me to publish it. But I never believed them.

On a whim, I started this blog; I love Boku no Hero Academia, it has given me something to look forward to every week. I live Chapter to Chapter, episode to episode, I track my time with it, it’s a coping mechanism. I saw that there was a decently active fandom on here, and I wanted to be a part of it. I hesitated on making the blog for a few weeks, thinking that no one would want to read my writing.

A month later, there are nearly 600 people here, constantly asking me to write scenarios and headcanons for them, telling me they love my writing, and think I’m a nice person, and that they’re glad I’m here. Every time I get a message like that, I cry. I never thought anyone would ever care about my writing, let alone write it. When I got a single follower that wasn’t a friend I know in real life, I cried. I was so excited. When I got my first request, I was so, so excited. When people began sending more stuff in, when people started talking to me and wanting to be friends, I cried. I’ve made a dozen friends on here as a direct result of their writing, and my writing.

I love running this blog, and I love writing for everyone. I have felt useless and like a waste of space my entire life, I’ve been told that my entire life, I’m made to feel like that every day of my life even now by the people around me, save for my friends, but when I log on here, I’m reminded that hey, maybe I’m not useless. If I manage to make even one person happy with what I do, that’s all I want.

So, you saying that my writing helps you, helps me. All I’ve ever wanted in life is to make other people happy, to please them, and my writing is apparently doing that. I’m really, really lucky to be in this position.

Even if you don’t have something like this, you’re not useless. You should be here. I know you said you’d never kill yourself because you’re too cowardly, but I’ve never seen suicide as cowardly, but that’s probably because I’ve tried to do it so many times. I’ve made a total of 8 attempts in 21 years. I don’t think I’ll be trying it again, though. It’s taken me 21 years to find something that I’m kind of maybe a little good at, that makes me even a tiny bit happy, and that does some good for other people, too.

Shit sucks, life is really awful, and I completely understand the plethora of reasons any given person would feel like wanting to die. I’ve never thought it unreasonable or dramatic to feel that way, it’s just how some people feel. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life until 3 years ago, and even now I’m unsure if it’s really what I want to do with my life. I’ve got a lot going on behind the scenes that makes me feel like shite, and a lot of the time, the people around me try to ruin what little I have that I enjoy and that makes me happy…

Even with all that happening, somehow, I’m still here, and I’m writing this. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I get your feelings, I hear you, they’re valid, and I love you, stranger. Because I feel the same way as you all the time. This blog is my escape from that. It’s really the only thing I have keeping me from my intrusive thoughts.

If you never come off anon, that’s fine, but if you need to talk about things, I’m here for you, or anyone else who needs it. Really, if I can even try to help, I’ll do my damnedest to help. I hate seeing other people feeling as junk as I do on a daily basis, I want to try and make it better. If being a friend, even if I don’t know who you are, helps, I want to help. If writing things helps, I want to do it. But, for me, it’s not just helping other people, it’s helping myself. You coming into the box helped me. So, you’re not useless. You’re keeping me here, too.

[aloelava-blog]

Thanks man. Wish I could do something creative though. Like with photography or music or a particular movement. The bipolar mind is both a blessing and a curse. I have partial ideas but they're never completed in my head and I have 0 resources. I want to show creativity but the world is so closed off to making their money, as much as possible. It's a downer because the world is beautiful but we take it for granted. Humans are poison but there are a select few good people that need to help change their surroundings and other people's minds to think in awe of our gorgeous earth and its atmosphere. There are so many things that make everyone unique! My specialty is being bipolar, but I want to turn that negative into a positive and help my generation. Bipolar I. "A person affected by bipolar I disorder has had at least one manic episode in his or her life. A manic episode is a period of abnormally elevated mood and high energy, accompanied by abnormal behavior that disrupts life. Most people with bipolar I disorder also suffer from episodes of depression." Chris, there was a time before I couldn't drive. I was maybe 13 or 14. My mom and I were in the car and I was in the passenger seat. I saw a street sign that I found to be so fucking comical that I was in tears. It was absolutely hilarious and my mom was confused and I could tell she was slightly scared. And I think that was my slight trigger because when we turned a corner (if you're familiar with Kingwood it was Northpark onto Loop 494) my face immediately dropped and my tears of joy turned into tears of sadness and I was bawling. I turned to her and said, "Mommy. I'm sorry. I'm sad again." LITERALLY the amount of time it took us to turn onto the next street my mood changed completely. It was terrifying. And then there are days on end when you are depressed. You don't get out of bed. You won't even help yourself because you know you're a useless waste of space. And you come to the conclusion that you want to die. Actually, as of right now I have made both the realization and conclusion that this entire message has been a Bipolar I episode and that truly, one day, I will be the one to decide when I die. It might be tonight, tomorrow, or in 5 years. I don't think I'll be alive in 6. 6 is a bad number. But im afraid because when I do determine the time that I leave this amazing earth, I might not see my dad or Jesus. I will not be forgiven. I'm not sure what is worse - ending it all and never seeing my father again or living out this life with all this poison around me. Humans.

My response to my best friend when he sent me the "best of luck to you!" message