The Glamorous Side of Depression

I lost my son Jon to suicide almost two months ago. Since then I have not had the desire to take proper care of my basic needs. I barely eat. I can't fall asleep at night but yet I sleep excessively during the day. If that wasn't bad enough, personal hygiene has not been a priority. 

I do not have much of an appetite. During the day my form of sustenance consists of things that start with the letter "C". Caffeine, candy, cake, cookies and chips. My only "real" meal of the day is dinner. My husband and children do most of the cooking because I do not have the desire to prepare the evening meal. At least twice a week we eat fast food which consists of burgers, fried chicken or pizza.

I hate falling asleep each night. Going to sleep means that I will have to wake up. Each morning I hope that the past few weeks is just some horrible nightmare. Instead, as I open my eyes I come to the realization that my son is gone. Every day the cycle repeats. After a good cry, I finally get out of bed. Sadly, the reason is to go to the bathroom because of my urgent need to pee.

I spend most of the day in bed sleeping. Whenever I wake up after one of my numerous naps, I lie in front of my laptop and wander aimlessly on the World Wide Web. This is the time where my consumption of the "C's" occurs. My daily exercise regimen consists of brushing crumbs off my clothes and my computer. The only thing that I have gained from this experience is weight.

I shower once a week if I am lucky. My hairbrush has become obsolete. The natural oil from my scalp help my fingers glide through my hair effortlessly removing most of the tangles. I have noticed that I am beginning to morph from feminine to masculine. My eyebrows are getting reacquainted with each other. I am beginning to sport a light mustache. I find it absolutely amazing that the hair on my legs are long enough to comb. I often wonder when the hair under my arms will be long enough to braid. I do not speak or smile often because I have replaced my toothbrush with chewing gum. 

Choosing something to wear from my vast wardrobe is simple. I usually wear the same thing for days in a row; bra optional. I could never claim that I would make a good meteorologist. Every day my breasts reveal that the weather will be nippy. To solve that problem, whenever I am forced to leave the house, I wear a coat no matter what the temperature. 

If you have the luxury of seeing me in public, please be kind. I give small, quick hugs for good reason. Big hugs require exposing my armpits to the open air. I am not trying to seem standoffish. I am doing you a favor. 

At A Loss For Words

The frequency of my blog posts have taken a steep decline since my son lost his life to suicide last month. I usually push myself to post 8-12 times a month. So far, this is my second blog post and the month is nearly over.

I have been going to therapy for dealing with grief. During my appointments, I spend most of my time crying and speaking gibberish that even I can't understand. I often wonder if doctors in the mental health field have the similar gift of translation to those of dentists. 

Those in the field of dentistry exhibit the innate power to decipher the slurred speech of patients who are under the influence of mouth numbing, drool producing drugs. 

Therapists in the mental health field grasp the capability to make sense of sob interrupted, partial sentences and phrases that are unintelligible to the untrained ear.

I would like to think that my mental health providers get some idea of what I try to communicate. 

Last year while taking classes at a local community college I decided to become a psychologist. While I was attending school I considered enrolling in an acting course so that I could learn how to play the role of a good therapist. I felt the need to acquire the skill to stop expressing my every thought and emotion the instant it enters my mind. Although I trust my doctors, I would like to think that they would have taken the class, "Understanding the Unintelligible" instead of "Acting 101".

For the next few months, my schedule will be changed to posting once week while I grieve the loss of my son. In the meantime, I will mix the topics of bipolar disorder and grief and loss. Hopefully I will get back to my regular schedule sooner than later.

My Life as a Pole Dancer

When I was a little girl I wanted to be a stripper when I grew up. I thought dancing around on a stage with men enthusiastically waving dollar bills in the air would have been a fantasy job. Easy money, right?

My sister and I would jump around on our beds while wearing only a tank top and panties while twirling our blouses above our heads like a lasso, mimicking a scene that we saw on a television show. We didn't think that it was scandalous. We just thought that it looked like fun. 

As we did this, we would never get fully undressed because we did not know that it was a part of the job description. After a bit of swinging our shirts around in circles, we would take turns letting go and flinging it towards the other end of our bedroom. We would chase after the article of clothing, retrieve it, and start the dance all over again. I was all just innocent fun. 

Now you may ask, what does this have to do with bipolar disorder. Well, it doesn't really have much to do with the illness. In this blog post I will discuss the two different poles of bipolar disorder

There is more than one kind of depression. There is unipolar depression where a person stays in a depressed state. Mania is the opposite of depression. It can contain feelings of extreme joy and exhilaration. With bipolar disorder, an individual has extreme mood swings between the two poles of depression and mania. 

Throughout most of my life I struggled with bipolar disorder. I did not know that I had the illness. I would suffer from bouts of depression but I would always think to myself, "I cannot be truly depressed, there are times when I am happy!" 

For many years, I would swing from one pole to another. I thought my mood swings were just a normal part of life; everyone had them. A bipolar life was all I knew. 

I thought bipolar disorder, formerly known as manic depression, was a scary disease made up of crazy, psycho people. When I inform other people that I am bipolar, I can see a scared look in their eyes. If only they knew it was a disorder of moods instead of a disorder made up of monsters.

I have learned a significant amount of information about life over the years as I matured into adulthood. For instance, I have come to realize that being an exotic dancer was not just about swinging your shirt over your head like a helicopter. It is not a glamorous lifestyle as I thought. I no longer have the aspirations to become a private dancer. With my middle-aged body that has bore seven children, I highly doubt that I would have the physique that men would long for, let alone pay to see. It doesn't matter...I do not have the strength and agility I once had to become a pole dancer anyway. 


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What Can I Do To Stop Bullying?

When my son Jonathan lost his life to suicide there was talk about bullying. My husband and I did not know that he was being bullied. It was only after his death that we were made aware of this situation. 

It seems that victims of bullies are afraid to stand up for themselves. Often times they do not tell anyone because they feel helpless. They feel alone. I wish my son would have confided in us. If he did, he may still be with us today.

There have been several suicides in our area over the past few years due to bullying. When I would hear about the loss of a young life, it saddened me. It broke my heart. I always felt sympathy for the parents who lost their child. It never crossed my mind that one day I would be one of those parents.

When our community would lose a young life to suicide, I watched my children closely. I searched for any signs in my children's behavior that may lead to suicide. As time would pass, my constant vigilance would slowly fade. When the news of another suicide would arise I would watch my children like a hawk once again. The cycle continued. Vigilance followed by complacency. 

Less than three weeks after the death of my son, his brother was in an altercation with another child at school. The other child is known to be a bully. To my understanding, there were words exchanged and it escalated to a physical fight. As of now, the school is trying to sort out what happened. Even though I do not know all the details, it is my belief that whatever the consequence, I will not be satisfied.

The other child told my son that he should kill himself like his brother. 

Our family is still grieving. To hear that someone would make such a rude, insensitive comment infuriates us. It hurts us to know that another one of our children is also a victim of a bully.

The loss of our son, my children's brother, has put us on alert once again on the dangers involved with bullying. Jonathan's death will not be in vain. I am not going to stay silent. I will do everything within my power to try to make a difference. My first step is posting my feelings on my "little" blog. It may not be a big step, but it will not be my last.

Family, Funerals, and Grief

These last couple of weeks have been very hard for our family. We had a celebration of life for our son Jonathan on the January 20th. He would have turned 15 years old. I am very appreciative of the love and support we have received from family, friends, and strangers.

They say that funerals bring out the best and worst in people. Some of the hardest parts for me to deal with have come from family. There are just some things that the people closest to us say or do that are hurtful at a time when things are already really difficult. 

I have been told that everyone grieves in their own way. Sometimes I think that's just an excuse for people’s poor behavior. Being in pain does not excuse being a jerk. 

As parents who have lost a child, shouldn't my wife and I be the ones who are mourning the most? I don't understand why someone else would be disrespectful and make this situation about them.

In the last couple of weeks, the actions of others have really drained the energy out of life. I was left feeling exhausted, depressed and angry. This cycle seems to repeat itself over and over again. Maybe it’s the grieving process or perhaps it’s something else. I am not really sure since I have never lost someone this close to me before. 

Coping with my son’s suicide has not been easy. A lot of the time, people want to talk and ask questions concerning his death. I know that they just want to reach a better understanding of what has happened. They don't realize that talking about his death, causes me to relive the experience again. It’s not fun. I usually cannot get through answering their questions without a pause. I try to keep from tearing up and crying.

Things are getting more manageable since his service. When I start feeling sad, I try to remember good things about Jon. He loved playing pranks on people and telling jokes. We spent lots of time out fishing or working in the garden. It’s these types of memories that help me to feel better when I am feeling sad. I miss him.

Remembering My Son

It has been two weeks since my 14 year old son Jonathan died from suicide. I am slowly coming to terms with his death. The road will be long and rough.

The whirlwind of emotions have not stopped. Sometimes I laugh as we reminisce about the happy times that we have shared with him. Other times I cry when I remember that he is gone and that there will be no more things to experience with him. Right now, the memories are fresh. 

I have bipolar disorder and one of the symptoms of this condition is having a difficult time with memory. I don't want to forget the little things. I don't want the recollection of these events in my mind to fade. The thought brings tears to my eyes. 

I know that I will feel remorseful as time goes by. Slowly I will forget his face and will have to look at pictures to remind me of what he looked like. All the encounters that we have shared will be harder to remember. The twinkle in his eye. His mischievous grin. The way that he brought humor to our lives. 

Before my son's funeral service my husband asked me if I needed an anti-anxiety pill to get through that day. I refused. I told him that did not want to be numbed.

I wanted to feel everything. I wanted to mourn. I wanted to feel the sadness. I wanted to feel the grief. 

I have not had my emotional breakdown yet. I have discussed my concerns with my doctor. I believe that the medication that I am taking to stabilize my moods are not allowing me to process the full spectrum of feelings that this loss should bring me. For my sanity, I feel the need to go insane. 

I miss my son. He will always be in my thoughts. He will always be in my heart. 

A friend told me that I shouldn't call the deep, gut wrenching feelings of grief a "breakdown". I should consider it to be a "breakthrough". Her words bring comfort to me as I travel through my journey of coming terms with my greatest loss, my son.

Celebrating My Son's Life

Since I lost my son Jonathan to suicide last weekend I have had lots of time to think. I am overwhelmed with emotion. It has been difficult coming to the realization that he is gone and never coming back. 

I do not know what to do. I do not know what to say. I do not know how to feel. I do not know where to go from here. 

I am in shock. I am in denial. I am in disbelief. I am confused. I am in pain. I am lost. I am trying to come to terms with how life will be without him. 

I am still expecting to find him at the computer laughing while he watches ridiculous videos on YouTube. I am still calling his name as if he is here. I am still expecting him to walk through the door.

I know that he is in a good place. I know that his pain has been lifted. I know his disabilities are healed and he is now perfect. I know that no matter how much I want him back, it was his time to leave. I know that he is an angel watching over us here on earth.

I am feeling many things. There are many questions that will never get answered. Although right now I am living a life of uncertainty, the one thing I know for sure is that he is smiling down upon us and that we will be together again someday.

I lost my son ten days before his 15th birthday. We are holding his memorial service on the anniversary of his birth. We are planning the biggest celebration of his life.  

My Greatest Loss, My Son

Today, I lost my 14 year old son Jon to suicide. Try as I might, I cannot think of any reason as to why he would choose to end his life. He was always a happy child who would make people laugh with his crazy antics.

As I write this, I think of my previous blog posts where I discussed all my own disparities. The way I bitched, moaned, and complained about my experiences with bipolar disorder. I rambled on and on about my bouts of depression. I talked endlessly about how hard it was to see past the tunnel of darkness. 

 All those blogs seem trivial now. I was selfish in thinking that I was helping others by sharing my feelings about my disorder with the world. I did not take the time to look closer; at the people near me to know that they needed my help, too. 

All I thought about was my own pain and personal troubles. I was too blind to notice any signs that my son was having difficulties within his own life. I did not look beyond his smile to get a good look into his eyes to see if there was sadness hidden behind them.

As I sit here in the wee hours of the morning, I know that I probably will not get any sleep tonight. My heart is broken. My conscience feels guilty. My mind is full of questions as to what I could have done if I only knew what was going on in his mind.

My husband and older son discouraged me from looking at him at the location where he chose to end his life. It was sheer torture watching as they wheeled him to the coroners van. Just before they loaded him, they gave me a chance to see him. They unzipped the body bag just enough for me to view his face; probably to ensure that I could not see the injuries that he incurred during the last moments of his life. I stroked his cheek and touched his forehead. I leaned down to give him a kiss. He was cold. I told him that I loved him.

I do not know what I am supposed to do from here. I feel the greatest loss a mother can feel; the loss of a child. There is one thing I know for sure, life is precious and I will no longer take mine for granted.

I love you, Jonathan, I love you.

Caffeine, Cigarettes, and Cocaine

Whenever I drive my teenage son to school I make a stop at my favorite fast food establishment. I make my way to the drive thru and order the same thing every time; a large caramel frappe, no whipped cream, extra drizzle. It contains one of my drugs of choice: caffeine. It supplies me with the energy I need in the morning. I can slurp one down in less than five minutes. Yum!

In all honesty, I do not drink just one during the day. I have one in the morning, another in the afternoon and one more at night. Whenever I go to McDonalds, they know who I am. I get extra special service. All I have to do is walk in and they start making one as soon as they notice me. Often, I will buy two a few hours apart during the same shift. I do not know how many times I have heard the comment, "You again? You were just in here not that long ago!" 

More than once, my doctor has told me to limit my caffeine intake. I do not listen. Throughout the day, I need a pick me up and the magical liquid is just what I need to keep me going. It has been recommended that I discontinue consuming caffeinated beverages at 4 P.M. in the afternoon so that it will clear my system so I can fall asleep at a decent time at night. Decreasing my habit will also help with my anxiety levels. I have not admitted to my doctor that I drink my last frappe of the night between the times of 8 P.M. and 11 P.M. I am a rebel. What is he going to do? Bend me over his knee and spank me?

Regular sleep schedules are important for someone with bipolar disorder. Caffeine can affect mood by causing high levels of energy. It can affect one's sleep schedule which can cause insomnia if used close to bedtime. If someone does not get enough sleep it can throw them into a manic phase, especially if this occurs for an extended period of time.

The addiction that I find most difficult to discontinue is smoking. I am a pack a day smoker. I have have been smoking since I was 14 years old. I have tried to quit many times. Sometimes I am successful but I resume smoking several months later.

It has been suggested that individuals with mood disorders use nicotine to regulate their moods. It affects dopamine levels that interacts with the pleasure centers within the brain. Quitting smoking can lead to depression. Sometimes antidepressants are used to to make quitting smoking easier. The use of antidepressants should be carefully monitored by a doctor because it can cause a major manic episode in someone with bipolar disorder.

According to what I have heard, cocaine is the drug of choice for people with bipolar disorder. Mania has been compared to a cocaine high. I can neither confirm or deny this fact because I have never used it, although I am curious. It is an expensive habit and I cannot afford it. Besides, the last thing I need is another addiction.

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My Reflections On My Depressions

As I look in the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. I recognize that I have seen this image many times. The sight of my unkempt hair reminds me that I haven't bathed in a few days. I look tired despite the fact that I spend the majority of my time sleeping. It is obvious that the way I feel is presenting itself on my appearance. I wonder if the outside world can also tell how I feel inside. I am in a state of depression. 

I wonder why I am feeling this way. Is this state of bipolar depression a matter of external factors around me or is it influenced by a chemical imbalance in my brain. My mind doesn't spend much time thinking about it. I do not have the energy to delve deeper into the reason for my despair.

I am operating on autopilot. My actions are minimal. Only necessary functions are completed. I drive the kids where they need to go. I force myself to load the washing machine only when the children have run out of clean clothes to wear. I waste most of the day away accomplishing nothing.

When they get home, my family takes over the household tasks while I sit forlorn in my bed. The kids do the dishes and cook dinner. My husband transfers the laundry from washer to dryer. I stare at the screen of my laptop and wander aimlessly on the World Wide Web finding interest in nothing. 

My family is used to this because it happens often. They have adjusted their lifestyle to meet my own. When I am in a depressed state they need to take over and do the tasks that should be mine.

I wish that I had the power to pull myself out of this depression. I wish that I had the capability to change the way I feel. Most of all, instead of feeling lonely and defeated, I wish that I had the mental capacity to be a better wife and mother to my husband and children while I am experiencing a depressive phase.


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Saying Goodbye

I have suffered a great loss. Someone who is important to me has left my life. My heart breaks at the thought that I will never see this person again. Precious memories are all that I have left. Already, the details of our special moments together are fading. 

It is difficult to know that I can no longer reach out to the person that I have shared many private aspects of my life. It is a struggle to find the strength to move on. I think about this person all the time. 

Without this person, I feel alone. I wish I could turn back time and be with this person again. I sometimes want to live in the past and regain what we had together. I don't know if I can leave the past behind and move on. I know that it is impossible to revisit what is now gone. I feel as if I have experienced the loss of someone I loved to death.

Bipolar disorder has touched many events in my life. During certain times I have felt intense joy. Other times I have felt deep sadness. The loss of that person that brought cherished memories has caused me great pain. One day when I reminisce about my experiences I will no longer feel the pain of losing those memories that I hold close to my heart. I hope I will never forget my past; for I would not be the same person I am today without them.

My Top 10 Goals For 2015

10. Eat a Balanced Diet

       Replace my meals of cookies, cake, ice cream, and chocolate.

9.   Get Enough Rest

       Try to go to bed before 3 o'clock in the morning each night.

8.   Become More Productive

      Take less naps during the day.

7.   Start an Exercise Regimen

      Work on my self control.

6.   Do Drugs Daily

      Follow my psychiatrist’s medication recommendations.

5.   Be Flexible

      Learn how to do the splits.

4.   Gain Independence

      Wean myself from my psychologist.

3.   Be Kind to Others

      Create a filter between my mind and my mouth.

2.   Learn How to Relax

      Decrease my anxiety levels by lowering my caffeine intake.

1.   Find Myself 

      Figure out who I am.

Say Hello to My Filthy Mouth

Jane:  It has been said that people who swear are not intelligent. Those who use colorful language have a limited vocabulary. I did a Google search to find the old adage so I could use the quote for this blog. Instead, when I began to type the words, Google auto populated the search suggestion “People who swear are more honest.” The examples that followed were articles from psychological studies.   

Nate:  As a child it was taboo to swear at home. My parents swore on occasion, but it was always justified or so we were told. My family believed in the theory of, “do as I say and not as I do”. I lived in a diverse community and the boundaries for swearing really depended on where you were at and with whom you were speaking. People who swore in public were looked down upon.

Jane:  I swear constantly. I frequently drop the F-bomb. The use of words that I consider to be “sentence enhancers” is a staple in our home. I am not above using cuss words in public. When family or friends are with me, some are mortified while others cannot hold back their laughter.

Nate:  Isn’t laughter often considered a sign of discomfort in awkward situations? Our children sometimes use some pretty colorful phrases that make others uncomfortable. If I hear it, I usually scold them and ask them to revisit their expression with less cussing to be more politically correct.

Jane:  In contrast to the way my husband reacts to our children using inappropriate words, I can’t help but laugh when they say them. Unfortunately, they follow in my footsteps. They even have come up with more creative, ingenious uses for using bad words. Secretly, I am proud when they come up with cleaver ways to mix in swear words in everyday conversation. I cannot stay “Do as I say, not what I do.” That would be hypocritical.

Nate:  Much of the time, the bulk of Jane’s swearing is directed at me. We have a ritual.

Jane:  I regularly tell Nate, “Fuck you.”

Nate:  I usually respond by saying, “Yes please.”

Jane:  I have been working with my psychologist about my issue with impulse control. He suggests that I should take a moment to think before I speak in order to decide if what I want to say is necessary. This exercise does not come easy for me. I constantly call my husband an asshole when we are having an argument. It has been discussed that instead of using that phrase, I should replace it by saying “I am angry at you” or “You hurt my feelings”.

Nate:  She is getting better at using her words. I know when she says, “I am angry at you” or “You hurt my feelings”, she is still calling me an asshole. Same meaning, different words.

Jane:  Sometimes my outbursts can get me in trouble; especially in public. This summer while in Walmart a woman was acting over dramatic because our aisle was blocked with too many shoppers. I said, “Some people need to pipe the fuck down and be patient.” I purposely said it loud enough for her to hear.

Nate:  When this sort of thing happens in public it can be amusing, but I am usually hoping they did not hear what my wife said or that the recipient does not realize she was talking about them and retaliate. 

Jane:  Just before Christmas my husband and I were taking a walk at the marina close to our home to look at the lights. My son and his girlfriend accompanied us. As we strolled around enjoying our evening, my son’s girlfriend informed me that as a man rushed past us he said, “I don’t know what the big deal is. They’re just lights!” That made me angry. I told my son’s girlfriend that if he wasn't so far away and other people's children were not nearby I would have yelled, “Fuck off. I’m blind!”

Nate:  We are lucky that she did not have the chance to voice her feelings. I was worried that the guy would come back and attack my wife. My son and I would have had to intervene and shield her from him.

Jane: He could have just apologized, said that I suffer from a mental illness, and led me away. He would not have been lying.

Nate:  This would not have been the first time I have had to step in and diffuse a situation. I am pretty good at stopping things from escalating before it gets ugly.

Jane:  Just the other day we were at the grocery store. As a woman passed us with her cart she looked me straight in the eye and gave me a dirty look. I looked up at my husband and asked him if he saw her give me a look.

Nate:  I smiled at my wife and affirmed that the lady had scowled at her. I put my arm around her and said, “It’s OK. Just walk away and ignore it.” I lead her to another aisle while she looked around searching for the woman. She told me that she wanted to find her and call her a bitch.

Jane:  I kept repeating a mantra in my head. “Take a deep breath, the doctor told me to watch what I say. Take a deep breath, the doctor told me to watch what I say. Take a deep breath, the doctor told me to watch what I say…”

Nate:  Learning how to watch what she says and filter out the profanity is still difficult for my wife. She is improving. I would feel sorry for whoever catches her during her lapse of judgment, but the recipient will probably be me.

Jane:  At the latest visit to my psychologist’s office he told me that he and my psychiatrist discussed my case. It was suggested that my swearing is not a part of having bipolar disorder; it is possible that it is just a part of my personality.

Nate:  When I heard this news from her I was not sure if I should be happy or concerned. It’s common for mood disorders to coexist with personality disorders. I always thought she might have a personality disorder.

Jane:  It is said that the first things that comes out of your mouth is usually your most honest feelings. In my case, honesty might not be the best policy. At least not until I get my smart mouth under control...

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A Vacation From Therapy

My psychologist is going to be away from his office for some time. Until he returns from his time off it will be two months before I see him again. This fact makes me nervous.

I found out that I had bipolar disorder a year and a half ago. I did not decide to start therapy until much later. I have been going to my psychologist for four months. When I started my sessions, I felt like I did not need therapy. 

I wish that I would have started therapy earlier. Even though I was resistant to therapy for over a year, the time that I have been going has made a major change in my life. Instead of keeping the feelings about my struggle with bipolar disorder to myself, I was finally able to articulate my feelings to someone who was trained in dealing with mental health issues. 

Over the past few weeks, I have been wondering if my sessions are more successful because of the time in my life that I decided to start. Was it a good decision to begin therapy after becoming stable on medication? Would I have been in a better place earlier if therapy was introduced toward the beginning of the process? I do not know the answer to that question. I just trust that everything happens for a reason and that things happen at the right time.

Therapy has given me the tools to better accept my diagnosis of bipolar disorder and I have realized that I have a large role in my recovery. Most of what I do depends on my view of the world. I learned that bipolar disorder does not control me. I control bipolar disorder by my decisions and actions. 

I put a major amount of effort into changing the way I think about the situations around me. I am not used to holding back what I am feeling; extreme anger, happiness, and sadness. I have been fast to react to all situations most of my life. Toning down my reactions is a battle. I have to take the time to stop and calm myself to behave like the "normal people" of the world instead of blowing up in anger, getting overenthusiastic about mundane things, or crying over things that I cannot control.

The other day I told my psychologist that he has had a negative impact on my blog. Before I started therapy, I used to blog two to three times a week. I feel that blogging is a good place for me to let my thoughts and feelings out. When I started therapy, I began sharing many things during my sessions instead of on my blog. It is nice to have a discussion instead of the one-sided conversation of a blog.

At this moment, I am nervous that I will not have the opportunity to speak to my psychologist for an extended amount of time. It will be a relief to me when he returns. After my hiatus from therapy I have no doubt that I will have an abundance of things to discuss with him when he returns. 

Leaving My World Behind

To say that I have an interesting life would be an understatement. Within each minute of every single day there is never a dull moment. My thoughts drive me to a far off magical land that the majority of the world's population would never fathom visiting; for they do not know of its existence.

I have special powers bestowed upon me. I possess the ability to experience every emotion with fervent intensity. With my mood swings come passion and compassion. Whether in mania or a depression, my feelings are extreme. I love the exhilaration of mania. I welcome the deep desperation of depression. 

I live in a land of wonder. In my mind, riding the roller coaster that I call life is invigorating. There is a new adventure with every twist and turn.

A year and a half ago, my life as I knew it was turned upside down. I felt like a cruel avionic creature from up above suddenly swooped over my head and dropped an enormous boulder on top of me. This catastrophic event has had a colossal effect to my psyche. I was notified that the life that I had come to know and love was abnormal. It was revealed to me that my erratic shifts in mood were symptoms of a mental illness. The name of the condition is bipolar disorder. 

Accepting my diagnosis was relatively easy. I scoured the internet in search for answers. I learned how my brain works and how it affects my behavior. It then became simple to make the connections that helped explain the numerous mysteries of my life. I do not have a problem with knowing that I have bipolar disorder. The problem lies in the realization that treatment is a component necessary to incorporate into my life. 

I am traveling on the road to normalcy with the help of medication and therapy. I despise this journey. What if I do not want to live a normal life? Is society's measure of what is considered to be normal of utmost importance?  This constant argument plays within the deepest recesses of my mind. Although resolving this question is supposed to be of my own choosing, I feel powerless in making a decision that I deem suitable for my inner self because society expects me to live within the realm of their own reality. The goddess within me loudly proclaims that losing my sense of reality in order to blend in with that of the world will erase the traits that make me unique, exceptional, and remarkable.

My emotions are muddied by medication. Each evening I look at my medication as if they are poison then swallow each bitter little pill. They are the tools for my undoing; they strip away my majestic mind of its greatness. It chases away the captivating daydreams that entertain me. The voices in my mind that keep me company are quieted. My imagination is suffocated. I fantasize about the idea of discontinuing the use of these psychiatric drugs in order to gain some semblance of what I once was. 

In order to make some sense of my new found mentality, therapy has taken a dominant presence in my life. When asked about the reason as to why I decided to receive therapy and the goals in which I wanted to accomplish, I replied that I needed assistance with adjusting to "normal". I thought that this portion of my ride would be easy. How hard could it be? I would be given they keys to unlock gates leading to the road of normalcy and then told the directions to where I need to go. I would simply follow the route; my psychologist being my navigation system. In my travels I have acquired numerous bumps and bruises. Unbeknownst to me, I can not expect to work towards becoming normal when I do not know its definition. 

As of now, I am still on the road to recovery. Sometimes I feel as if my vehicle is broken down in middle of what seems to be an never ending road. There are detours to overcome and roadblocks to conquer. Eventually I will reach my destination and have the ability to look into my rear view mirror without the regret of knowing that I had to drive into a tunnel of darkness in order to reach the light at the other side.