What Do I Remember About That Night?

I remember that up to this point, this was the most difficult my life had ever been. I was struggling through the complete devastation of everything I thought I knew. Having to keep functioning and trying not to lose myself in the rubble of my life. This small celebration for a big win at work was such a welcome reprieve. As a part of a small specialized group of nerds, we helped secure a very large hotel contract that would change the face of business class internet for our company. We were celebrating this win with the sales team that closed the deal. Dinner and drinks at a local hot spot.

You had been working on bringing my wall down for months. Playfully calling me a man-hater, you set out to prove not all men were the same. You complimented me on my burger eating ability instead of my figure. You invited my whole family to the monster truck show. You got to know my husband and son. We got to know your son. You made me prove to the rest of the nerds that I had what it took to be part of that team, when I didn’t even know for sure if I could. But I did and I trusted you because I thought you believed in me.

You knew what was going on in my personal life. My world had been shattered and you were there for me. A listening ear and a shoulder when I needed one. You never tried to fix it, just let me vent without taking a side, which is exactly what I needed at the time. The only advise you gave was to get a kitten. I loved that because it seemed like such an intimate suggestion. Something to love that would not hurt me. I have no idea if that was your intention or not, but it worked. I got two.

You knew how desperately I needed this night of carefree celebration. A chance to really throw my cares to the wind and enjoy my successes. You knew my history with drinking and that I simply couldn’t; unless I had a trustworthy chaperone. I was surrounded by friends and coworkers. I was safe. You encouraged me to let loose and assured me I would be OK. I trusted you. You even told my husband I would be OK because you had my back. Then you turned my cell phone off.

I remember begging friends to not leave yet. We were having too much fun. I remember strong strawberry margarita’s and dancing. I remember feeling free and light. The weight of the world was gone. I remember feeling the music and dancing with a girl in a brown dress. That girl. I remember being mesmerized by her freckles. As consciousness slipped away, I remember trying to stay close to her. Wishing she would never leave. I knew when you started holding me up, that I was crossing over into the danger zone. But even then, the way you leaned into me with your shoulder made me feel safe.

Then I remember the quiet. Still silence. I felt heavy. It was so dark. With my eyes still closed I remember trying to determine if where I was felt familiar or could I remember how I got here? Nothing. The position of my body was awkward. I could feel movement. What was it? A large hand on my body. Squeezing, groping, I could feel the warm rough skin on my breast. Why? How? I opened my eyes and took in the familiar shapes of trees, silhouettes in the night, a wrought iron fence and the soft glare of a dashboard. My seat was reclined. My yellow shirt was hiked up sloppily, exposing me. As my eyes adjusted I recognized the parking lot of the largest cable provider in Texas. As my mind adjusted I recognized the familiar feelings of broken trust and ravaged boundaries.

Once again, I found myself in this strange place; caught between guilt, rage and fear. I did not want to do anything that could make my situation worse. I did not want to be physically hurt or even left here abandoned in the dark with no way home. Reluctantly, I decided on the best strategy I could think of in my fog. I pretended not to notice the stumbling fingers on my breast. As the hand made its way down to my thigh and tugged at my knee trying to create some space between my legs, I took the opportunity to stir. Pretending to have simply been disturbed, I stretched and then curled into a ball facing away from you. And I prayed.

I remember hearing some rustling and the gear shift into reverse. A slight jolt of the vehicle and we were in motion. It must have lulled me back to sleep because the next thing I remember is waking up in my own home. It was now Saturday. As I tried to piece the night together, I found my phone in my purse but little else. The remaining contents must have spilled out onto the floor of your truck because I found them in a small pile just outside my front door. Looking back, I think that says a lot about that night. It says a lot about you.

Monday came and I had to face you. Part of me thanking God I didn’t have to sit with your group anymore, part of me wondering if this would have happened if I had still been part of your group. But I know it would have. A weasel is a weasel. You came sauntering up to my desk with your arrogant swagger and delinquent grin. You made small talk while I sat there burning from the inside out. I don’t even know what you said until I heard “What do you remember from that night?” In my mind I ripped you apart. I like to think that the me I am now would have known exactly what to say, what to do, how to react. I know I would never have let you get away with it. But the me that was sitting there at that moment was full of guilt for getting drunk, remorse for letting my guard down once again and shame for what was done to me in your truck. “Enough” was all I could muster. Those were the last words I would say to you and that was the last time you ever looked me in the eye. “I remember enough.”

The Perfect Storm

Well, it has finally happened. My manic episode that seemed to last a year has ended. Or maybe it paused? Or maybe it’s just recharging? Who knows.

I think it was actually a “hypo-manic” episode. I just learned this term recently. It’s a milder form of mania. Amazing how I am still learning about myself and this disorder after so many years.

Honestly, I am thankful for the break because being manic is so exhausting. I am also thankful that when it ended, I did not crash into a depressive episode. Well, I did, but it only lasted 2 days. Now I feel as normal as normal gets for me. It’s nice for a change.

Another thing I am just learning about is triggers. I did not know my episodes could be triggered and therefore have never paid attention to what might be triggering them. I know what ended my manic episode, but I am not sure what caused it. It ended Sunday, November 4th, when I attended the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention Out of the Darkness Walk. That is clear to me. Where it started is up for debate. I think it may have been in June 2017, when my husband and I traveled to Northern Arizona to attend his best friend’s funeral. The day we took a trip to the Grand Canyon, I realized that the future I imagined for myself was hanging by a thread. The events of that day led me to believe I would have to choose between my dreams and my relationship. My husband believes it was triggered in January 2018, by a float session in a zero gravity/sensory deprivation tank. He could be right. I do remember that session being a life changing experience for me. Either way, that means the episode lasted anywhere from 10 to 16 months. I have NEVER experienced anything like this before in my life.

Now here I am dealing with the aftermath.

Having a manic episode is like being lost at sea. No land in sight and all you can do is keep treading water. It literally feels like that physically. But it is all in your head. Nothing under your feet. You have no idea how you got there or if and when you will be back on land. For me, the sea I am lost in is a beautiful one. I have to thank God for that. I know it is not that way for everyone who is bipolar. Some seas are arctic and some are enveloped in raging storms. My sea is beautiful and wild. I could stay there forever if I only had the energy. But it is not as kind to the people who love me. They are tossed about too and it is harder for them to understand it because they cannot see it, or feel it like I do.

This manic episode has changed me and even helped me in so many ways. It got me through the loss of my mother. I honestly don’t know how I did it, but if I had not been in the middle of a manic episode, I don’t know if I would have made it through that. I made some of the most difficult decisions of my life during this episode. Part of me still wonders if they truly needed to be made or not, but for the most part, I think they did. And I know I would not have been able to do it had I not been manic. I may write more about those decisions at a later time, but not yet.

2018 is almost over. I will turn 46 next month, and then 2019 will start. I think 2019 will be so full of new starts and changes big and small. I am both excited and scared. It is time to sink or swim. But I am ready. Bring it on.

Adventure of a Lifetime

I have lived with bipolar disorder for half of my life now. I have spent 23 years medicated, trying new med’s, or adjusting existing med’s. The experience has always led me to think that certain medications have stopped working, or are no longer working for me. For the last year or so (maybe more, maybe less) I have been feeling unstable again. Very much like walking a tight-rope. I could fall at any moment, but I haven’t. Yet. It has been manageable because I am experiencing mania, not depression. Looking back, I am wondering if my chemical imbalance has been what changes, and not the medications ability to work. Do these disorders evolve? Do they change as we do?

As I have aged, have I become less depressed, so maybe I need less anti-depression medication? Or maybe I have become more manic and need more mood stabilizer med’s? Maybe I should try something new all-together? Some of my experiences with medication have been pretty terrifying, so I am reluctant to do that. Besides, I kinda like the mania. I am more social, happier and have a more positive outlook on life and everything about it when I am manic. But I don’t quite feel like myself, so I am trying to be very careful. It truly is difficult to control the urges to make decisions without thinking them through! But I am making lots of decisions and sometimes it scares me. I think I may have been in a depressive state for so long that I got sick and tired of it, and I started making somewhat big decisions in order to make changes in my life. Taking those steps may have caused a change in my mood and I have been manic ever since? Or maybe my manic state came first and allowed me to start making changes in my life that I did not have the courage to make while depressed? Either way, I am scared. Scared and excited at the same time.

I am afraid of how my decisions will impact (are impacting) the people I love. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I am learning that is impossible. When your life is connected to others lives, changes affect those lives as well. So, your life is not just your own. It belongs to you, but it is a part of what belongs to them too. Their world, their reality, their identity. I guess there are always both blessings and curses that inherently come with any intimate relationship, but I think they are multiplied when the relationship is with someone who is bipolar. Unless I just feel that way because I am bipolar.

I am excited about my future. I love change and have been longing for an adventure for such a long time. My son is all grown up and I am an empty nester now. My husband and I have come to a mutual understanding and are parting ways in what I hope to be the most amicable separation in history. Aside from marriage and parenthood, this will be my biggest adventure yet. But what if this is just a manic stage that has lasted for what seems like eternity? What if once I reach this goal I have set, I find that I am unhappy? What if I experience another depressive episode? What if I lose everything?

What if I live my life afraid, never make these changes and build nothing but regrets?

What if the next chapter of my life is full of ups and downs, highs and lows?

I really can’t avoid that. I don’t know if I would even if I could. I am more afraid of the regret of not LIVING than the consequences of having done so. If this is a manic episode, I am going to make the most of it.

I think I am still learning to love who I am, bipolar disorder and all, and maybe that is the greatest adventure of all.

woman stands on mountain over field under cloudy sky at sunrise
Photo by Victor Freitas on Pexels.com

Motherly Love?

My Mom always told me that she knew very young that she wanted to be a mother. Over the years, she said many, many times that my brother and I were so lucky that we were wanted and loved. There were so many children who were neglected, abused or just unloved. I remember even as a young child how that always confused me. I didn’t know how to feel or react whenever she talked about it. I didn’t feel loved. Or wanted. But her statements made me feel almost guilty for not being grateful. I thought something was wrong with me. Something made ME not worth the love she always talked about. Her words said she wanted children and she loved children. I saw her with other children and she did seem to love them. She especially seemed to love the underdogs. Kids born with disabilities, or even serious handicaps. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t enjoy me as much as she enjoyed them.

Then, when I was 7, my parents divorced and I started to figure it out. It was me. She told me how much I reminded her of my father. I was ugly because I looked just like him she said. She couldn’t stand to look at me. I loved and adored my Dad and missed him terribly. She seemed to lose her mind when we would cry for him. He was a disgusting human being, so we must be disgusting too, for loving him. On Fridays when we would go to spend weekend with him, she would let us get dressed in whatever was our favorite clothes at the time. She would do our hair and tell us how beautiful we were. We would absolutely GLOW with the unexpected and so desired tenderness.  She would even sit us down to have our picture taken.

But then Sunday would come and we would return. The dread of Sundays is burned into me, much deeper than the brief elation of Friday afternoons. The first Sunday we had no idea what was waiting for us. We came home hoping to walk right back into her loving arms, but instead were greeted with abhorrence. We were filthy rotten and we smelled like garbage. She wondered aloud if we slept or bathed or even changed our clothes even once over the weekend. We were belittled and insulted until we were in tears. Then she sat us down for another picture.

This went on for some time. I was around 9 years old, so I can’t quite recall if it was weeks, or months. The pictures were used in a court battle to gain full custody of my brother and I. Not because she wanted us, as would be made very clear in the future. At this point in my life I have a few ideas of why she would do these things, but really, they are only my guesses. And she is not here to talk to about it. She can no longer confirm or deny anything. She can no longer answer any questions we may have. Even when she was, I tried many times and she was unable to participate in any difficult conversations. The conversations I most needed to have with her.

The last time I tried, was just a few years before she ended her life. She was living with my family and we were alone in the house. The familiar story of how much my brother and I were loved and wanted was being retold. I felt such a surge of emotion. Anger, sadness, pity, confusion, longing and something new. I think it was something like resolve, or determination. Maybe I was just feeling brave or rebellious or even resentful, I just don’t know. I asked her where us children were during the time in her life when we were loved and wanted? I told her I didn’t remember any of it. I even asked if maybe it was the first few years of our lives, before my memories begin? I explained that I did not feel lucky at all. What I remembered was screaming, anger and abandonment. I remembered her allowing us to be abused by our first step-father, and not stopping him or leaving until the first time he laid his hands on her. I remembered her sending us away, to go live with our father who she so desperately hated, when she first met the man who would become husband number 3. I remember weeks at a time of taking care of ourselves because she would not come home. And when she did, things were only worse.

I will never forget this moment. When I told her about the childhood I remembered. It was the moment I began to realize that I would never hear an apology, much less an acknowledgement. Right before my eyes a physical change came over her.  She was sitting on the couch facing in my direction. Slowly and simultaneously, her body became rigid and her eyes grew wide like saucers. Huge, terrified and childlike, she looked like a deer caught in headlights. Frozen. From her head to her toes. I realized something was terribly wrong. I still do not know what. I don’t know what would cause a reaction like that in a human. I don’t know how someone can just turn off or tune out like that. I have never been confronted with anything so terrible that it caused a reaction like that in me. The closest thing I can compare it to is when I experienced a sexual assault at the hands of a friend while sleeping. I froze in fear. I pretended to still be asleep because I did not know what else to do. I imagine it could have been a very similar reaction, but I will never know. She is not here to ask and if she was, she would not be capable of answering.

One of the reasons I wanted to tell this story today is because I want the world to understand why I am not as sad as I believe most people think I should be. I am more relieved for the mother I loved, than I am sad for the mother I lost. My Mom was not a happy person. Yes, she experienced happy moments, and I feel SUPER BLESSED for each and every one that I got to share with her. But they were the exception, not the rule. I don’t know what her relationships with others were like, because she never talked about it much. When she had someone else in her life, her children were put aside, so I never even really got to even witness much.  In my later teen years and early adulthood, we experienced a few rather lengthy periods of close friendship. I even consider her my best friend during these years. But a best friend is not a mother. To this day, I wish she had warned me against the bad decisions I was making instead of encouraging me and giving me high-fives. I wish she could have taught me to love myself, and to know the value of what it is to be a woman. But I know now that she did not have these things inside her to give. I can’t be angry for that. All I can be is sad.

Sad that she never learned to love herself. Sad at the thought of all she missed out on in life. Sad that in her last years of life she alienated herself from all those who loved her. Sad that her doctors and therapists were never able to stabilize her. Sad that in the end, death was the only way she could find to feel better.

So, yes, I am relieved. I am actually HAPPY for her now. She searched for God her whole life and even found Him in a few corners of her mind. I know she is with Him now. I know she is free of the heavy burden of mental illness. She is experiencing love in a way she has never known possible. She is adored and cared for. She is needed in His kingdom and serving His other children happily. She has clear eyes, not the eyes of a scared deer. And with them, she can see her own children. Her little girl and baby boy. She can feel their love. She can love them in return, with PURE motherly love. And she is waiting for us. It is then that I will have the happy childhood of her stories. I will finally be wanted and loved.

Ready to Jump

I still don’t know how to describe what I am feeling. What is going on in my mind. I tried journaling about it yesterday to see if I could put it into words, and I did not make any progress. The times I have tried,  I have only come up with ‘self-destructive’ but I think that is too harsh a word. It describes something bad, dangerous, or harmful so it can’t be completely accurate. Can it? Another word that comes to mind is restless, but that only describes a part of how I feel, not everything. I need change. I want change. If I don’t make at least a step in that direction, I am going to go crazy.

I have been building this life I have for the last 24 years. Not alone, but at times by myself. Good and bad, we built this; my husband and I. But now that I am here, I am unhappy. It is not what I want. I love my husband, I truly do. He has asked me for a while now if I am ‘in love’ with him. They can be very different things after all. I realized recently that yes, I am still ‘in love’ with him. I believe I always will be. He has been my friend, my lover, my co-parent, my teacher, my pupil, my undoing and my restorer. He is literally part of me. I have been married to him for more than half of my life. For the last 24 years we have been growing together… and apart. We are so very different than the people we were when we met, fell in love and married. Thank goodness! We were both a mess and I think that is why we gravitated to each other. Each of us, without the other, could not have learned the lessons we needed in order to become who we are now.

Who we are now… Who I am now… Who am I now? I think this is where I find myself stuck; in this whirlwind of emotion. I feel like I am living someone else’s life. When my son still lived at home, I was Mom, and that gave me purpose and I never questioned who I was or the life I was living. But I always knew that I had a gypsy spirit and that when he left the nest I would live a very different life. That time is now. Where do I go? What do I do? I don’t know. What I do know is that doing nothing and staying where I am is killing me, slowly. This is where my conundrum lies. In order to re-discover who I am, and live the life I want to live, what do I have to leave behind? What am I giving up? What does it mean, and what does it look like? Am I ready? Will it hurt?

woman wearing grey long sleeved top photography
Photo by Artem Bali on Pexels.com

 

Hate To Feel/Want To Feel

Do you ever feel like your mind won’t let you rest? You get enough sleep but your still so tired? And you have to keep functioning, so you just push through, push through, push through. But you want to feel something different. You want relief. From the constant-ness of whatever it is that you are trying not to feel anymore. My tendency is to lean toward alcohol. I recognize that as bad, so I avoid it, for the most part. I like to write, that helps me focus on something other than how I feel for a moment. In my 20’s I used drugs, and sex. This is hard and scary to write about. Putting it out there makes me feel very vulnerable. But I am struggling right now and need to figure out a new way. My brain is on overdrive and I need to function. Has anyone else found new ways of getting through these moments?

I have found that standing in the rain helps. I can feel it on my skin and it is so soothing. But it’s not raining today…

 

Liberated, Or Lonely?

Recently I wrote about what mania looks like for me. I described both past and present episodes, the symptoms I displayed and how they felt for me. At one point I stated that the more recent episode felt like a mid-life crisis. The problem is I am no longer experiencing a manic episode yet I still feel stuck in the middle of a mid-life crisis. Maybe you can relate?

architecture daylight driveway entrance
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I know that I have what most people consider a perfect life. I have been married for 24 years. I love my husband and he loves me. We have had our ups and downs, but they only made us better. Everyone we know tells us we have a very special love, one that is so rare these days. Many friends have said that they wish for a love like ours. We have a nice house, the prettiest house on our street if you ask me. We have lived here for 14 years. We have a grown son, who we raised in this house. We have two cars, two dogs and a boat. We still live paycheck to paycheck, so we can’t afford the repairs and upgrades our house needs. We can’t take nice vacations, we can barely afford a vacation at all, but we have decent jobs and our bills are paid. That is more than a lot of people have, and I am very grateful.

curve decision forest fork
Photo by Snapwire on Pexels.com

So why am I so restless? My heart feels like it wants to burst out of my chest. Six months ago I almost left my marriage. We had been talking about fixing up the house and selling it, so I told him that when it sold, I thought we should go our separate ways. I wholeheartedly believed that he felt this coming, that we were on the same unspoken page. We had been growing apart little by little for a while. We both had our hearts set on different life paths and knew we would eventually come to a fork in the road. Boy, was I wrong. It caught him very off-guard and sent our relationship into a tailspin. He had no idea how unhappy I am with the life we are living.

He is content. He craves stability and routine. He could stay in this house forever, and take the same vacation every year. I crave change. I am exhilarated by starting a fresh life. I want to experience different cultures, not just vacations, but to truly immerse myself in new cultures. My heart and soul literally ache for adventure. He sees everything I desire as risky and foolish. I see everything he desires as life not lived, and the thought of continuing like this is suffocating. I am consumed with thoughts of independence.

What does that mean exactly? He is not controlling and does not try to prevent me or stop me from doing anything. I need independence from what? What do I want that I can’t have because I am married? Let me try to explain. I am still confused by it all myself, so please bear with me.

For as long as I can remember, we have been different in these ways. While he never told me I could not do something, he always expressed his concern in ways I felt I couldn’t reasonably argue with. All of my dreams involved risk, there were our financial responsibilities, my personal safety, it would keep us up too late, and the list goes on. As the years went by, so did most of my opportunities. Little ones like concerts and big ones like travel. On the other side of this, I am a risk taker at heart. When he wanted to take chances like starting his own business, buying a vehicle out of our price range, changing careers multiple times rebuilding a Harley Davidson and investing in his buy/sell/trade hobby, I was the encourager. At times I was even the investor.  I had faith that he could make things work. If I had concerns, I would voice them, but always end on a positive note, telling him the decision was ultimately his and I would support him in it.

art beautiful blur celebration
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Eventually I learned to keep my dreams to myself. Now I dream about coming home to somewhere other than here. In my mind, it is a small home, maybe even an RV. I call it my gypsy wagon. It is full of color and sunshine. Bohemian chic. There are no little messes on the counters or piles of unopened mail on the table. The laundry is always in the laundry basket and never on the living-room floor. The toothpaste is always where I left it and the toilet paper roll is never empty. If there are dirty dishes, they are in the sink. When I am hungry, I eat fruit or steam veggies. The pantry is no longer full of junk food and I always have mimosa or sangria makings. I am able to stay late at work without someone wondering where I am. I am able to go out with friends, impromptu style, without disappointing or neglecting anyone. I can stay later than expected without worrying someone. I do not have to explain where I am going, who I am with or what we are doing.

I do not want these freedoms because I want to go places I shouldn’t go, or to be with people I shouldn’t be with, or do things that I shouldn’t do. I am a good girl after all. I just want to be me. I miss the freedoms that people willingly give up in a marriage. He doesn’t demand to know where I am going or who I am with. It is just what spouses do. It never bothered me when we were raising our son. I happily and lovingly accepted the role of wife and mother. But now I want to be me again, unapologetically.  And I can’t do that without hurting his feelings, or making him feel unloved or unwanted. To him, these little things are everything. His life as a husband depends on them. The small changes in me are already hurting him. He says he is trying to get used to the new me. The me that doesn’t want to call him every morning and afternoon during my drive to and from work. The me that plans vacations that he does not get invited to. The me that wants to go out with friends after work, without him.

I can’t help but wonder how fair this all is to him. How would I feel if the shoe were on the other foot? I feel terrible that I am not the same love-sick kitten, waiting breathlessly for every free moment we have to spend together. I also feel blessed that we had that for as long as we did. After 24 years, we still love each other. We do have a special love and our life experiences together really solidified that love and we have grown so much together.

Last summer, he told me he would let me go if that is what I need to be happy. He also said he wants and deserves to be with someone who is with him because they want to be. That was the first time I thought of it like that. What he needs, what he wants, what he deserves. It was very eye opening. He is right. He does deserve that, and more. I love him dearly and suffer at the thought of hurting him. But am I just delaying the inevitable?

Why am I drowning? Why do I fantasize about freedom every day? If I stay long enough will these feelings go away? How long is long enough? I have been dreaming about freedom in some form and to different degrees for a few years already. Am I just completely selfish? Does he deserve better? I know the answer to that question is a resounding yes. So should I let him go so he can move on with his life?

We have talked about my dreams of living in an RV or moving to a new state every year or two. It is not what he wants and we agree that making him live that way is as unfair as me being forced to live a life I don’t want. I find myself very confused by the amount of disdain I have for this life I am currently living. I chose it. When did it become so oppressive to have roots? I used to love my life and my home, when did that change? Is it because I am empty nesting? If so, could this be a stage or phase of life that I will outgrow? Honestly, I think that is what scares me the most.

grayscale photo of person in parka coat
Photo by Andrii Nikolaienko on Pexels.com

What if I go and it was a mistake? What if a year from now, or five years from now, I want this life back and I can’t have it? What if I find that being alone is just lonely? What if the hurt I cause my husband, my best friend is irreparable? There is a song titled Rinse, by Vanessa Carlton. It’s not one of her best, but there is a line in it that HAUNTS me. It says:

And if she runs away she fears she won’t be followed,

what could be worse than leaving something behind?

And as the depth of oceans slowly become shallow,

its loneliness she finds.

This just terrifies me. Is it possible to crave freedom so badly and still fear solitude? To love alone and fear lonely?

So here I am, today, like every day, without the answers. How do you choose when either way is going to hurt, both yourself and someone you love?

man and woman sitting on bench
Photo by Vera Arsic on Pexels.com