How are you? I am fine......... NOT Really!

I know it's been quite a while since we have posted any new blogs. Our family has been trying to work towards getting back to normal after losing my son to suicide earlier this year. When you lose a child unexpectedly to suicide, it rocks your world in ways you could never understand until it has happened to you.

A week or two after Jon's death, I went to see a therapist to help me deal with my grief. I am glad to have found a psychologist that meshes well with me.  As I began to open up to him about what I was feeling he helped me look deeper into myself. I am filled with feelings of deep sadness and sorrow.  The depth of my depression felt crippling with no way out. No one knew this because I smile and pretend like everything's fine. I put others needs above my own. I hide behind a mask of being a tough guy and deflect anything that would make it look like I need help.

My counselor knew why I started seeing him. I was under a lot of stress with everything that had happened. After a few sessions he suggested I get some testing done. The first couple of times he ask me about it, I blew it off and said no thank you. I know I am depressed, but I am doing just fine.

A couple of weeks later at my next visit, he gave me a homework assignment to watch The Perks of Being a Wallflower . I thought it was cool since I like watching movies. I looked it up on Youtube. The movie trailer seemed fun and interesting. It took me a few weeks till finally found it on DVD at my local Barnes and Noble. Later that week I sat down with my wife to watch it together. I was pretty excited since it took a while for me to find a copy.

Unfortunately as I watched the plot of this movie play out, I already knew what was going to happen. As we watched the film together I grew uncomfortable. The movie wasn't poorly done.  I realized several of the themes and plot mirrored my own life, minus the nice middle class living in an upscale neighborhood.  By the end of the movie I was pretty pissed off at my therapist for suggesting I see it.

At my next visit I asked him why he asked me watch it.  I was angry at him for tricking me into seeing a film that would upset me.  He pointed out that my problems went deeper than what had happened in the last few months.  I knew he was right.  Since my maternal grandmother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, I agreed to take the psych tests.  I wanted to understand what was going on in my head so I could get the best help possible.

The next time I met with my therapist, we started going through my tests.  He told me that he was shocked going over my results.  My doctor said that if any other person had read my results that they would not believe it based on how I appear on the outside. I don't show what I am thinking or feeling very often. I joked that I had lied while taking the test.  He said the tests would have caught me if I was lying, and that I was incredibly honest. 

Then I asked him how crazy I was. He told me I am NOT crazy.  Yay for me! I am not crazy, LOL!  I have been through alot in my life, and I think very differently than most people. I developed many maladaptive behaviors and thought processes. My official diagnosis: severe anxiety, depression, paranoia, addiction, and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). All of these things are labels that help explain my struggles, but they do not define me.

I am not a war veteran. I am just someone who has been through some VERY crazy shit in my life. I saw and lived in the darker side humanity. I am a survivor.  

The Effects of Retail Therapy

I have not blogged much in the last three months. I would start and then stop. More often than not it would be because a cascade of tears running down my face would overcome me. 

Many thoughts about my son's suicide rush through my mind. I feel overwhelmed. Not a day goes by that I do not think of him. 

I cry at the grocery store. Jon was a big eater and I would fill the cart as if he were still here. It took me by surprise when I looked in the freezer one day. It was full. I then realized that Jon was no longer here to eat the food faster than I could buy it. I cry again.

Every summer I buy an inflatable swimming pool. The pool sits empty in the yard. In previous years Jon frequently filled it. He enjoyed splashing in the water.

As always, I purchased pool toys. When I arrived home I gave the toys to the kids. There was an extra one. I realized that without thinking I automatically bought one for Jon, too. My eyes tear up.

Summer vacation is coming to an end. It is time to begin buying clothes and shoes for the upcoming school year. Someone jokingly told me that I will save money because I am buying for one less person. A set of school pictures will not have to be ordered. I don't care about the money. I would pay anything to have him back.

I choke back tears as they well in my eyes. As I try to hold them back the tears run down my face. The pain will never go away.

Retail therapy. 

Most find joy at the prospect. 

For me it brings sadness.

A Picture Of Too Few Words

A family portrait. I had planned that someday in the future our family would have that special photo. It would be one of those cheesy ones where everyone would wear coordinated outfits; all smiles and perfectly posed.



I wanted a family picture that I would be proud to showcase on a prominent wall in our home. It would be a picture that would be a remembrance that we would cherish forever or something we would laugh about in the future. We would comment on our hairstyles and our choice of clothes. We would talk about how young we looked; how old we are now.

For our family, that picture will never exist. Not by a professional photographer. Not even a candid shot taken by a friend. I wish that we had taken a picture; even if it was imperfect.

I lost my son to suicide. If we take a picture now it would be incomplete. A part of our family would be missing. Jon. 

I urge you to take many family photos. Even if they are far from perfect. In the future you may regret not having a memento from the past.

A picture can be worth a thousand words. A missing picture can be worth much more.

It's Just a Load of Shit

A few weeks ago I spent a day training for youth mental health. I was excited to learn about the subject. I wanted to learn how to help others with mental health issues. I looked forward to spending the day with my husband learning about a topic that I am passionate about.

The first thing we did when we walked into the conference room was sign-in and collect various papers, pamphlets and a book. I found a seat in the front row. I was eager to learn.

Many of those who attended held fancy titles. My husband and I were some of the few who were "just" parents. We did not have any impressive letters after our names. We were not part of a network in the community that worked closely with youth.

The premise of the program was to cover "first aid" for youth in crisis until the situation is resolved or appropriate help has been received. I realize that there is only so much that can be taught in one all day session. The meeting only touched on a basic range of information. I would have preferred that they would have spent more time on key subjects instead a watered down, hodgepodge of ideas. 

I challenged them. Do school counselors, coaches, and parents hold the level of expertise adequate to help a child in crisis? When is a band-aid not enough? At what point is it necessary to reach for a higher degree of help? Where do they go to find it? The information was lightly touched at the end of the class. By then, people had left the class or were too busy gathering their things to take notice of the information.

We were there to gain knowledge about the topic of mental help for youth. I cannot say that I learned absolutely nothing. I was not expecting to gain an epiphany, but instead of discovering a wealth of gold nuggets, all I collected was a light dusting of the treasure of which I thought I would find. I expected more. Much more.

The instructors taught us how to handle situations where someone needs help. Whenever I questioned the presenters they gave me generic answers. Life does not follow perfect step by step scenarios. I know that from experience. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to throw-up. I wanted to leave. 

I learned a lot of things that day. I learned that my experience and emotional connection to the subject dominates whatever can be taught from a textbook. I learned that it is more meaningful to listen to someone who has been through the experience speak from the heart.

I have decided that occasions like these do me more harm than good. I brought home various papers, pamphlets and a book. I will throw it all in the recycle bin because it is something that I know I will never read. In my opinion, almost everything I heard that day was just a load of shit.

My Failure as a Father

The loss of my 14 year old son Jon has pretty much preoccupied my life. He ended his life on January 10th of this year. Many things, if not all things, have become less important to me. I have been going to therapy to help work through my grief over my son's death. Early in the process, my psychologist was quick to point out that I do not take much time for myself. I focus most of my efforts on supporting my family.

Up until the last few months it seemed as if our family's life was fairly uneventful. I went about my life doing the usual things; work, school and being involved with youth groups. We lived an average life. My life was not always like this.

I learned to be street smart early in life. As a boy, I had to take care of myself and my younger sister. We lived in rough places. I was in a lot of fights. Bullies and intimidation were all part of my life.

When I was eight years old a group of older boys beat me up. I was determined to never let them hurt me again. I went home and stole one of my father's pocket knives. The next time they tried to jump me I was ready for them. Even though I began fighting back, something inside of me died. I was not born an angry violent kid, but that is what I became. Who said that bullies never hurt anyone?

In my preteen years my grades dropped. I was always in detention. As hard as I had become, I could not deal with what was going on in my life. I turned to drugs and alcohol to ease my pain. I lived with friends and on the street.

At age 16, I entered a rehabilitation center for drugs and alcohol abuse. I was expelled. At that point of my life I was on a fast track to jail, prison or an early death. Even though those years were rough, I lived.

In 1990 I made a decision that changed my life. I left everything behind and moved halfway across the state for a new start. As cliche as it sounds, "I found God" and with help of new friends I was able to become civilized again. I put my knife away and learned to use my hands for other things than making fists.

After I graduated from high school I served as a missionary for two years. I came home, went to college and married my wife. I was as far from my previous life as possible, or so I thought. I raised my kids in a nice school district with nice people in nice neighborhoods surrounded by everything nice. I never thought that my children would have to experience the kind of hell that I did growing up. 

The comfy image of my life was shattered on a morning in January when I had to pull my knife from my pocket to cut down my son's lifeless body. I thought my children had a good life. I thought they were safe. I did not think that I needed to protect them from the world. I was wrong. 

Who says bullies never hurt anyone?

Disclosure. When is the Right Time and Place?

Last month my mind raced with endless possibilities. I announced lofty goals that others may have seen as impressive. I believed that I could accomplish anything. I fought aggressively toward my goal to make a difference. Lately those aspirations have waned.

My passion has not changed. I am frustrated because there are many roadblocks that I did not take into consideration. I feel as if I am fighting a large problem with little support. I am grasping for anything that will help. Many times I feel helpless, but yet at the same time I still have hope. 

I aspire to make a difference in the world of mental health and suicide prevention. Many times I have thought that I do not have the right credentials to speak about these subjects. I am not properly educated; I am not trained.

I have a mental illness. That does not qualify me to speak about mental health issues. Talking about my experiences comes easily but I cannot speak for others. Everyone has their own unique story.

What information can I offer on the subject of suicide prevention? I did not recognize any signs when my son decided to end his life. Would that make me a hypocrite? 

I look for opportunities in my community to hear what others have to say about mental health and suicide. When I go to the lectures, should I keep my illness and my son's suicide to myself or do I disclose everything? I believe that what I can share could be valuable because I have personal insight that cannot be learned from books or lectures. 

Is there a right or wrong answer? Will my decision be well thought out or impulsive? I don't know. I just I hope that I make the correct decision when the time presents itself. I will just have to wait and see..

You Think I'm Crazy? Tell Me Something I Don't Know.

It has finally happened. Someone called my family crazy. Although my son was the main target, our family was included in the statement.

My son and I both have bipolar disorder; it is a heritable mental illness. It is one condition where crazy is a suitable description. Maniac. Psychotic. Bat shit crazy. These are other excellent examples.

Many people have a mental illness. Does that make people with a condition crazy, too? Possibly.

Every member of our family call each other crazy all the time. My husband calls me crazy as a term of endearment. Is our whole family crazy? I would not be surprised. We embrace it. 

Let's be real. Everyone in the world has a touch of crazy inside of them. Some are crazier than others.

We admit that we are crazy. Does that mean that we are weak? I don't think so. Abnormal? That may surely be the case. I believe that the exposing that we are an anomaly makes us brave. 

So, you think I'm crazy? I willingly admit that you are correct. Tell me something I don't know. I'm not insulted, I am flattered. Thank you for the compliment. 

By the way, it takes crazy to know crazy...

Maybe I Am Crazier Than I Thought

When I started this blog I thought I was writing from a good place. I was seeing a psychiatrist. In my mind, I was stable because I was on medication.

I have been reading some of my past posts. I now realize that I was crazy...very crazy. I was delusional. I heard voices. I hallucinated. I believed that an unknown force told me to do irrational things. I did not know that I was experiencing psychosis. 

When I think about my current life I realize that I am still crazy. I don't think the crazy will ever go away.

Stop Hiding. Admit That You Have Bipolar Disorder!

Over the past two years since I found out that I have bipolar disorder I have had many reactions. Most of the time I am greeted with compassion from people who have a family member or close friend who also possess a mental illness. They understand the struggle. 

Yesterday I saw an acquaintance in a parking lot. He looked different. The upbeat guy that I once knew looked like he was a zombie. He told me that he had just lost his job because he had a episode. He said that he had a brain disorder and his doctor put him on medication. He did not like the side effects. He told me that he needed the meds to control his mania. I asked him if he was bipolar. He was embarrassed and said, "Yes". Without hesitation I smiled and told him that I had bipolar disorder, too. He quickly relaxed and held his hand out for a fist bump. I reassured him that it takes a while to find the right medications to manage the disorder. Before we parted ways, I gave him a hug. I wish that he did not feel the need to speak in code to hide his illness.

I wish that people did not find shame about having a mental illness. I wish that there was not a stigma regarding mental disorders. With understanding, people will realize that there is no reason to be afraid.

Bipolar disorder, formally known as manic depression, is a mood disorder. A person with the disorder experience extreme mood swings between depression and mania. Most people are familiar with the term depression. I like to refer to it as depressions because there is more than one type.

There is unipolar depression (what most people are familiar with) and bipolar disorder. Unipolar depression has one pole (a unicycle has one wheel) and bipolar disorder has two poles (a bicycle has two wheels). Imagine that those poles are at an extreme distance from each other. 

A person with unipolar depression would stay at “one pole” and experience moods that are low such as severe and chronic sadness, feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, worthlessness, lethargy and a lack of energy or motivation. 

The other pole is OPPOSITE of the first. It displays inflated self esteem, decreased need for sleep, racing thoughts, increased goal-directed activity and excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences. This is considered to be mania. 

A person with bipolar disorder experience phases of mood swings between the poles, the lows of depression and the highs of mania. Individuals without the illness do not exhibit the extreme shifts in mood.

I have bipolar disorder. I am on medication to help stabilize my moods. My mental condition does not dictate who I am. I wish people did not feel ashamed. In order for that to happen, people need to educate themselves; not only the ones who do not have a mental illness, but the people who have one as well.

Ending the Relationship with my Psychologist

I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to my psychologist. Next month we will decrease our weekly sessions to twice a month. Soon it will taper off to tune-ups now and then.

I will no longer plop upon his couch when he invites me into his office. I have always fantasized about lying down on his sofa during our sessions. I will soon miss the opportunity to walk into his office wearing my pajamas with my pillow and blanket in tow. 

I will miss scarfing down my caramel frappe while he sips his tea.
I will miss discussing my life. I will miss our conversations about the options I need to consider while making decisions.

"How do you feel about this?"

"What do you think you should do?"

"Why do you think that?"

Oh, those open ended questions...I will miss them the most. I let him delve into the depths of my soul. He knows my struggles, my weaknesses. He understands me better than I understand myself, but yet I know almost nothing about him.

I will miss the front office staff. The way they welcome me. How they call me by name as I hand over my debit card to cover my copay. I do not know how I will survive without our interactions. 

I am grateful that my doctor did not force me to do relaxation techniques. Early on I told him that I would walk out the door if he ever tried any of that crap on me. I do not believe that sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce, chanting ohmmm with hands on our knees and palms towards the sky, on plush green grass while a gentle breeze surrounds us would make me a better person.

Thank you, doctor, for the great times. You have affected me more than you will ever know. I hope that you will acknowledge me if ever we cross paths when I see my psychiatrist next door for med checks every few months. I wish that I could say that you will miss me just as much as I will miss you, but I understand that you are my therapist and not my friend. 

When Will Therapy No Longer Be Necessary?

The past few visits that I have had with my psychologist have been different from that I have experienced in the past. 

The original purpose of my therapy was to learn the coping skills necessary for my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. After about six months of therapy I felt that we had reached a point in my recovery that indicated that I was able to sufficiently deal with my struggles with less psychological supervision. I scheduled my appointments from seeing my therapist from once a week to every other week as part of my weaning process from counseling.

It seemed like a effective plan. I felt good about my decision. It was a relief knowing that the process of accepting my mental state of mind was going according to plan.

Then a crisis in my life appeared. I lost one of my children to suicide. As a result, my world was turned upside down. I went from a good mental state of being to one of emotional chaos. My number of visits went from my scheduled plan of twice a month to twice a week. The intentions of my sessions changed from one of recovery to one of loss.

In previous appointments I looked at my psychologist's face. I noticed his eyes, his hair, his cheekbones and the way he brought his hand to his face as he listened to me intently. I am obsessed with his hands. His fingers possess an air of elegance.  

The more recent appointments progressed into something different. I went from looking at my psychologist's face to avoiding eye contact at all costs. I find interest in the room around me during our discussions. This usually takes place when I feel the burning of tears welling into my eyes. I look at the reflection of a lamp in the mirror behind his head. I scan the frames on the wall. I study the bookshelf by his chair and try to make out the titles. I consider the style of decor in his office. Did he choose his furniture and its placement or did the room come fully furnished? I follow the pattern on his sweater or the buttons of his shirt. I notice the texture of his pants. I need to make a mental note to look at his shoes at today's session. I do anything to distract me from my emotional pain.

I wonder about the car he drives and if my numerous appointments are funding a vehicle upgrade in the near future. Does he pay rent or a mortgage? One of the most pressing questions is his age. He is an excellent psychologist. When did he graduate from college? What degree does he have; what are his credentials? I haven't noticed any framed diplomas on his wall. This does not give me the opportunity to count backwards from the day of his graduation to the year he was born. I make another mental note to search for a diploma.

Is there a necessity for therapy? I lost my son. Anyone in my condition would be in emotional distress. I know that I will forever feel the loss of my child. I realize that crying is a part of the grieving process. I understand that everything will get easier with time. How many days, weeks, months or years will I need the luxury of the help of a psychologist? If I decide to quit now, can I resolve my issues on my own? Definitely not. My original schedule concerning therapy has changed. It has been redirected towards another path; a path of which I know is  not certain. Whatever the outcome, at the moment, I feel comfort knowing that I do not have to travel that path alone.  

Will My Husband Decide to Leave Me?

My husband used to tell me that he loved me just the way I am. I haven't heard him say that in a long time. I cannot pinpoint the exact time that he discontinued saying that phrase. Truthfully, I did not notice that he stopped saying it at all.

In the past I played the sweet, loving wife and he the adoring husband. One day I suddenly turned from someone with a beautiful, kind heart to a person who was angry and bitter. I became someone that he did not know.

We fought. We distanced ourselves from each other. We talked about ending our marriage.

Although it seems like that part of our relationship occurred a lifetime ago, in reality, it has only been a couple of years. In that short time we have tried to repair our marriage but there is only so much one can forgive. Horrible things were said; words that cannot be taken back. Try as we might, things will never be forgotten. Hurtful words, although no longer spoken, are etched into our hearts and minds forever.

Just before I found out that I had bipolar disorder I went through, what I now know to be, a major manic phase. This part of the disorder can be positive, negative or a mixture of both. You can either exhibit over the top joy and happiness or irritability and anger. During that specific time of my life I was a monster. I turned into a unreasonable bitch and almost destroyed our marriage.

I am not the person that I was during that major manic phase. Even so, the experience has changed my life forever. I will never be the same person that I was before my lapse in judgment.

Soon after my diagnosis, I started a year of experimenting with medication. I believe that my psychiatrist and I found an acceptable mix and level of drugs to help manage my moods, at least I hope. It is not uncommon to take many years to obtain the right chemical cocktail that works for each specific individual.

My medication has made me a totally different person from my former self. My moods have been stabilized within acceptable parameters. I no longer swing between the deep depths of depression nor the intense highs of mania. I am forever changed. 

I feel as if the spark that made me special has gone away. There was a certain part of my craziness that my husband found endearing. The fun, spontaneous and impulsive part of me has disappeared. I think my husband mourns the loss of those aspects of my life.

When I ask my husband if he still loves me the way I am, I can see sadness in his eyes. I am not the person he married. He tries to reassure me that he'll love me no matter what. 

I am afraid that one day he will decide that he does not like me because I have changed. I fear that his reason will be that I am not the person with whom he fell in love. I wonder if my husband will leave me because he does not like the person who I have become.

I Deserve to Get Punched in the Face

I have spent countless hours wracking my brain trying to figure out why my son would feel desperate enough to end his life. In the midst of my grief over losing my son Jonathan to suicide, I have been told many hurtful things. One of the worst things that I have heard is that my son's suicide is my fault. 

According to a someone on my husband's side of the family, I did something during my pregnancy that caused my son to have autism. My son has had many difficulties in life because of his mental disability. This person feels that if my son was not mentally challenged his life would have been easier, therefore, he would not have had the desire to end his life.

It has been suggested that the way I raised my son is wrong. Not only have I been described as a failure of a mother, several scenarios of my shortcomings that never crossed my mind were voiced. This person does not put blame on my husband, only me.

She knows that I have a mental illness. I have been told that she is not scared that I have bipolar disorder, she wants to punch me in the face. This person does not even know me. I met her once for a brief moment many years ago. 

Even though she does not have any tangible reason to blame me for my son's death, it still hurts my already fragile heart to hear such awful things.

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. 


photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/nutnutz/9362024362/">nutnutz</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

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.

photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/stephenburch/4946765216/">Stephen Burch</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>