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>