Folk don’t want the messy truth. Not that I have seen, at least not my messy truth. They want uplifting tales of hope, poignant tales of sorrow, struggle and overcoming into victory and joy that carries them up with it, and a shiny list of tools to get there. I can’t offer that.
I remain trapped in the journey. I slog along in a morass of something beneath evolved, thrashing in some sort of swamp with no enlightened path shedding a glow of epiphany through the sagging webwork of moss and spiderwebs that is my mind. I present my sense of hopelessness.
There was a bridge over it for a while, a stable earthen construction bordered by smooth logs, lifting the pilgrim over the marsh but not too high, following the vagaries of life but not dropping too low, and it seemed worthwhile to try to be a better person because it appeared possible. But the things chased me, the memories, mistakes, all I’ve done wrong, the shame, and they wouldn’t stop. The earthwork ended, and I fell straight in. Now the things have me again. They surge behind, around and in front, darkening my mind, eroding my thought and eating the hopes and the goals in front of me. They are monsters that chew, swallow and dissolve my lessons and my resolutions without cease.
In 2001 the people in my life suffered my psychosis, which lasted years. At the end of it I was exiled. I was expected to be ashamed of and accept responsibility for behaviors I could not control but only scream at from a tiny cage in my mind as I watched in horror. I was/am so sorry for the lives that I affected in such bad ways. I was/am ashamed, too, but I couldn’t let go of the idea that I was sick and that it was so unfair to be judged for having a disease. I very much wished I was dying of cancer instead of going around with the Sword of Suicide dangling over my head. People would sit at my bedside and call me brave for surviving as long as I had. Instead they spit on me, and if I’d succumbed to my illness they would have spit on my grave. My attempts to make amends were laced with bitterness and, justifiably, every one was refused. The worst part is, nowadays when I have a relapse episode, the self-loathing and bitterness return. How self-centered it all is. The mixed episodes have been returning with greater frequency, the brain fog is overwhelming, and now I’m in crisis again, which has not happened to me in a very long time. Hence this post, probably.
Here is what I am doing. DBT tool: mindfulness. DBT tool: Opposite action. Other tools: Masking, since it seems to be the only way to get along. Focusing on gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. Lifting other people up and cheering them on whenever possible. Forcing myself to go outside and play.
Most of these things have worked for a while but are now falling apart.
So for today, I have no tidy conclusion. I was trying to write things with tidy conclusions but that made me quit writing altogether. It was no more than a feeble attempt at masking anyway, only on the page. Then I tried writing my messy truth and no one wanted it. But that’s okay. Why should they?
Authenticity all the way.
My wish for you is that you are secure in the knowledge that you are valuable, no matter how you feel. Have a wonderful day.
Last week, three sales and technical reps came to my workplace. I’d been informed they were coming at a certain time and was as mentally prepared for this horrific event as I could be. These meetings usually take place in the conference room. There’s a good-sized table with decently spaced-apart chairs and plenty of light by which to watch people’s faces and see all their materials. Best of all, it’s a non-clinical area and you can have your water bottle with you.
My department is also a room. It’s filled with benches and safety cabinets and incubators and agars and analyzers and a microscope. I’m back here because microorganism wrangling is a one-person job and I need to work alone. I often keep the lights dimmed because overhead lights are just … cruel. I’m fortunate to have a choice. There’s even a window, a decadent luxury in a lab. But the room has one horrible feature: the workstation is against the wall opposite the door. Not only is my back to the ever-open door, but a biological safety cabinet and bookshelf loom at my back, between me and the doorway; I can’t see it even when I turn around. Whenever anyone comes into the department, they round this tower and appear beside me and I startle so hard my butt catches air. Sometimes they speak suddenly just before manifesting, which has the same effect. The adrenaline spark is so intense that it hurts—a lot—exploding through my body and brain, slamming into my fingertips and toes and the crown of my head. Every nerve shrieks at once. It’s comparable to touching an electrified livestock fence multiple times a day.
Invariably they act surprised by my reaction, though it happens every single time they come in unless they do me the courtesy of knocking or dinging the call bell I have on the counter by the door for that very reason. There are two or three people who accommodate me in this simple way before they come on around. The rest gasp or laugh or say, “I didn’t mean to startle you,” or all three at once. Sometimes they appear offended that I should be startled by them, as if they have the right to have me not be startled by them.
Then they start talking about whatever they have come to interrupt me with. My heart is pounding and my face is so flushed I feel like my eardrums are going to burst. I’m trying to slow my breathing while the pain recedes from my nerves, which feel like tiny stick people flailing their arms and screaming as they are dragged back into a wormhole. I scramble to shift my focus to what the other person is launching at me and redirect my thoughts from the microorganisms I’ve been pondering.
But none of these terrible things were going on when, sitting at my workstation in the low light, I heard unfamiliar voices out in the corridor mingled with those of the two supervisors. It’s time for the meeting, I thought, proudly calm, and grabbed my notebook and went to the door.
With big smiles they greeted me, Super1 and Super2 and three female sales reps from the biotech company. Grinning back, I focused on each one’s name and face and promised myself I’d remember. And instead of then proceeding to the conference room where I could see them, they formed a phalanx and advanced at once into my dark domain. There, the supervisors toured the shadowy beings around my department as if I were not even present. Nobody thought to turn on the lights.
When our happy group came back around the biological safety cabinet toward the doorway, they stopped. Maybe they were talking about the analyzer they were standing next to; I don’t even remember. All I remember is that I tried to say something, felt irrelevant, and we continued standing right there in a close, roughly ovoid configuration, me trapped against the incubators between Super1 and a sales rep, with no escape.
I’m fairly certain I have various conditions that have never been diagnosed in addition to my bipolar. Maybe they aren’t anything. But they are challenging obstacles for me all the same. One of these is acute claustrophobia in groups of people. Another one is intolerance of standing in one position for any amount of time unless I’m in the woods. Another one is insomnia and chronic exhaustion.
Well, the conversation went on. I waited for Super1 to make a move to head to the conference room, and he didn’t. I slowly realized, to my utmost dread, that they had in effect started the meeting right here, huddled together in this dark, compressed space. I was okay for a few minutes, but fatigue set in along with the claustrophobia, right on time.
I was still struggling to maintain an interested demeanor well after it became clear to me that no one was interested in my dredged-up ideas about anything. I quit trying to contribute and turned my attention to fighting the claustrophobia. There was no direction I could move. Super1 lounged against the incubator on my left, an option I didn’t have because I was at the space between the incubators. The rep to my right seemed to close in on me. She could almost brush my sleeve. Panic arose and I was quickly exhausted trying to suppress or at least hide my frenetic panting. With the hyperventilation, strangely, came the imperative to yawn. Yawning, I’m aware, is universally interpreted as a sign of disrespect rather than complete exhaustion in such settings. I’m also aware that fighting the urge to yawn is a challenge shared by everyone, which made my failure to subdue a couple all the more socially unacceptable. My self-consciousness was justified when one of the impeccable reps snickered, openly watching me struggle.
By then, I could no longer stand still. Oh, how I wanted to. But I couldn’t. My legs were spasming. I squiggled and fidgeted like my son in first grade before starting Adderall. Their talk was gibberish. My ears roared with the effort to hold back yawns, to still my restless legs and arms. And yet I found myself fixated equally upon my own misery and the plight of the third of the visitors.
Unlike me, she had perfect composure the entire time standing business-casual in those skinny high heels she was wearing. They were the sort of shoes, I thought, one might wear to a meeting in which one expected to be sitting at a table in a conference room. Standing there like that for so long on a concrete floor could be nothing but torture. I was stuck on it like I get stuck when someone mentions they have to go to the bathroom and then lets events carry them along and doesn’t get around to going. All I can think is GO TO THE BATHROOM PLEASE.
I needed that lady to get off those heels as much as I needed to crouch on the floor, yawn big, and then run around the benches screaming.
I was shaking inside, dizzy and near tears by the time the meeting seemed to be wrapping up. There were sporadic “Well, it’s been really great finally meeting you,” sorts of remarks, and “Here’s my card,” mixing in with final pitch fragments and answered questions. Any second, we’d all exchange final handshakes and they’d be out the door. And I wasn’t glad. I was desperate.
But Super2 suddenly had a burning question. It was very important. No, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking this.
Yes, what about this? Super1 agreed. Clarify, clarify. And the wheels began turning once more, and the conversation rumbled back to life, and I held back my tears with no idea what anyone was saying. I felt like I was about to pass out. Eventually the shifting around, closing of notebooks, and handing off of brochures resumed, and this time it was for real. The meeting was over. But the terror was not. They all started socializing. “You driving back this evening? Where to?” “What’s your sales territory?” “What motel are you staying in? Here’s what to do while you’re in town. Oh, you brought your bicycle? Let me tell you about the trails!”
I was still standing there. I could not even chew my leg off. I was well and truly trapped, and I could no longer hold back my tears. But a coworker appeared with a specimen for culture as if a guardian angel had shoved her in the door to rescue me with a task only I could perform. I sidled unsteadily past the woman next to me, surveyed the items in the hood, and then whispered to the aide, “Bring me another one. Say it’s STAT!”
But that interruption was the catalyst. The meeting actually broke up. For they all were as full of it as I was, having been caught in a PCR amplification loop of polite small talk that seemed inescapable. But they could play the game. It’s all just body language and concealing the tells. They could do it. They could pretend they were okay, and with engagement and endurance. I could not. That’s the difference between “normal” and me. I dove headfirst into setting up that culture. I waved the slide in the air to dry it for staining. I tooled around the bench a few times. Then I stepped out into the bright hallway.
There they all were! Clustered around Super2’s office door! Well, I’m sure she had questions and inconsistencies to point out and they were all quailing before her acumen.
I zoomed to the breakroom, chugged water, and looked at Bluesky for a minute. I went to the bathroom, not because I needed to (I didn’t; I was frankly dehydrated) but because it was a door I could get behind and lock.
Today’s offering is a flash fiction story about feelings.
Difficult feelings, painful to acknowledge feelings, painful to process and face.
Samhain
A.C. Turek
I sit with Gail under a large oak tree near the sword booth. She twirls a red-slathered autumn leaf by its stem.
“Have you ever seen a leaf this huge?”
“It feels like we’re sitting in another Samhain cliché,” I say. “The fair, the witches, the pumpkins and squash.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “But for it to be a real cliché we’d have to get pomegranates and start setting out pictures of William Blake.”
I shift. “He’d like that except, there’s no trace of his spirit.” I’m not speaking of William Blake.
Gail looks down at her leaf, then up again, through narrowed eyes. “Maybe all that talking about it chased it away, or blocked your perception.”
That was not me. I’ve been stabbed. What the hell do you mean?
I said nothing at his funeral, and I should have. It’s a regret. Another knife-twist.
“I’m still so mad at him!” Gail says. “Selfish asshole.” She gets to her feet, limned in the green-gold sunlight. She gestures to the archers on the field. “I’ve gotta go hang with the boys.” With that she takes off, leaving me alone, my grief rekindled.
I sit here, staring through the bent bows, finely drawn silhouettes against deep blue sky. Death by suicide is not what people say it is.
A guy says something, chain mail glitters; Gail’s signature giggle strafes the field. It’s all very purposeful. A collarless dog runs past, brindled and skinny, barking after something. I push myself up to follow it, to find my own purpose, any purpose. I might have taken his dog, had I stood forward and offered. Had my offer had any chance of acknowledgement.
Two costumed knaves balance on a big log stretched across the irrigation canal, sparring with staves. Thick wheat grass cushions either end. A pony cart passes by, obscuring the contest for a few moments. The pony wears fairy wings, and the driver beams beneath her crown while a camera clicks all over them. It’s that literary dude with the long, gray ponytail, from the newspaper. The dog trots toward the pony, then thinks better of it.
A small commotion ensues at the balancing log. Laughter, rude words, clapping. The smaller man has fallen. His moccasined feet are sticking up out of the ditch, bicycling the air.
I realign myself with the dirt track ahead of me. It leads off toward the alley, edged by a weed-footed chain link fence. A faded wrapper hangs in a thistle. The air is flat and stale, and the dog has disappeared.
What comes first, I don’t know. Depression from helplessness, or helplessness from depression; I think there are arguments for both.
First off, I’m not a psychologist, and have no academic qualifications to address any psychological disorder. I haven’t done extensive research and have no scholarly citations to list at the end of this. I do not claim to have the empirically correct solution. I’m just here to share things that, through trial and error, ended up working for me after I lost practically everything to bipolar 1 mania and depression, and I learned helplessness.
When bad things that are out of your control keep happening to you, you eventually come to believe that things cannot get better and there’s nothing you can do to improve your situation or your outcome. Whatever you try leads to no escape and that is the law of your life.
People with learned helplessness lose their motivation, and just get washed along with the current, expecting they will end up in the swamp or the quicksand and sink. There is no point in trying to save themselves. They become hopeless, and even anticipate more bad things. Helplessess is the law of their life.
“Let go of what you can’t control and choose to be positive” is not a helpful piece of advice to someone in this state, so you just have to blow off people who scorn you for not being able to do it.
This quote (somebody threw in my face) from the Greek Stoic philosopher Epictetus is what got me to pondering on helplessness:
“Freedom is the only worthy goal in life. It is won by disregarding things that lie beyond our control.”
Okay. If you buy this, it looks like to win freedom from whatever, you just choose to ignore the things you can’t control, because if you disregard the things, they can’t control you. But it’s not that simple if you’re in a morass of learned helplessness and depression.
Don’t you at least have to acknowledge the things that are beyond your control? Will it really help you, avoiding thinking them over? What is actually going on? Is there a cause? If the cause is something you can’t control, ignoring that cause isn’t going to keep it from controlling you. Looking at it is the only way to begin to understand it.
To find freedom you must first accept the feeling or circumstance. Ignoring is just a way to put off acceptance, and therefore the power of change. One day, look at the circumstance objectively, and look at everything surrounding that one uncontrollable situation. Look at how it is affecting you. This can lead you to find something to change about yourself. Find something you can control. You can’t do that by disregarding the thing you can’t control.
Once you acknowledge and accept the thing that is out of your control, you can move toward finding a strategy to empower yourself.
Steps to self-empowerment:
They say you can control your attitude. Just snap your fingers and CHOOSE to be positive!
Okay, well, that doesn’t work for everyone. I suggest mindfulness as a starting point.
Mindfulness helps you to ground yourself in the moment. Feel the surface under your hand. What do you hear, see, smell? Label it. Describe everything to yourself. Even if you have to actually slam your hand down on the table and say “table!” Knowing where you are and what is around you is the beginning of control. It’s the beginning of viewing yourself and events objectively.
Your approach to the circumstances. Consider approaching the challenges differently (or at all).
One way is to try looking at your situation as containing a problem to be solved. You can make a shift from helpless complacency to being solution-oriented. This doesn’t mean you can control an uncontrollable circumstance such as weather or how someone else is acting, but you may have control over an effect or two on your environment or your frazzled brain. If you can’t spring immediately into a positive attitude toward things, still you can choose what action you take. If you can pick up one little aspect of your life and improve it, do it, and be mindful of that improvement, even if it’s just managing a smile or putting away a cup. Don’t belittle it or yourself. Don’t feel you have to put more effort into it than you can at the moment. As you get stronger, you’ll be able to put more effort in, and your attitude will improve. One little step at a time, you can progress into a solution-oriented attitude by focusing on those tiny adjustments, the things you can control.
Don’t forget to take care of yourself. Prioritize your physical and mental health.
This is another big topic in and of itself. You can’t take care of the helplessness as effectively if you don’t take care of yourself. The hardest thing can be taking the time for it. If you’re not in the habit of taking care of yourself, it’s looking like another big, overwhelming project. It doesn’t mean you have to embrace diet, fitness, sleep, and social time. You can find one thing at a time to improve. You might break it down, make a list, choose the first small thing you can do for your health that you haven’t taken the time to do.
Allow people to help you.
This is a tough one for some people, independence, bootstraps and all that. You can choose to accept help or not. But if you can’t accept help, you could be making the hill you must climb that much higher and steeper. I have little to contribute to the general idea, because it was difficult for me, but I know I usually made things a lot more difficult when I refused help.
Attend to relationships.
Do your best to nurture what you have with family, friends, coworkers. Find ways to reach out. Let them know they are loved and appreciated. Examine those relationships (objectively, as above, if problematic) and work on improving them in any way that is relevant to your situation.
A personal story of how I empowered myself
During a time of poverty that seemed so hopeless that I lost all motivation to care for myself or my surroundings, I got into the danger zone. My husband couldn’t find work, and when he did his clients took advantage of him. I was disabled due to severe bipolar episodes. I felt helpless to fight the disease. And I was sure we were destined to lose our home. There was no point in cleaning house, because it was too overwhelming. There was only so much we could do to maintain the place with no money, despite my husband’s skills. Furniture was left outside, and though I didn’t want it there, it was there, so there was nothing to be done about it. There was no point in trying to communicate with my family, because I was a bad mother, a worse wife, and there was no understanding between us. And so on. Little things and big things sticking together and rolling along, into a boulder of hopelessness. I was helpless. I knew I was powerless to effect any positive outcome, so I didn’t try.
One day I looked at a table that had been left outside, and it was damaged, and for some reason I picked it up and moved it. I have no words to describe what a big achievement that was. But that was the beginning. I learned that it didn’t have to stay where it was. Yes, it was neglected, but just because it was outside did not mean it was already too late for it. I could stop further damage because I had the power to move it. Wow.
It was not the thing that lifted us out of poverty, but it was an event that began my slow journey out of helplessness, which eventually became part of the greater process of ending the poverty. Despite the large proportion of circumstances that were out of my control, there were things that could be controlled, and it was a matter of teaching myself that I had the power to control them. Somehow, over time, one teeny thing after another, I able-ized myself.
January is Mental Wellness Month, and also this month, it’s expected we welcome the new year with resolutions and then at least pretend to try to enact them. Resolutions can be thought of as promises to make personal change for the better, so it’s a perfect time to focus on mental well-being.
One of the biggest things we can do for ourselves is get regular exercise, right? The National Institute of Health says that just 30 minutes a day of mere walking can improve mood, reduce stress and, of course, provide a host of health benefits. Taking that walk in natural sunlight will even help us connect with that elusive unicorn known as “sleep.”
In the winter, especially, enjoying what sunlight is available is an important component of managing depression and mood swings, bipolar and otherwise.
I don’t know about you, but for me it’s so hard to get out when I’m depressed. Nice, helpful articles with bullet points generally have “Participate in favorite activities,” “Go out in nature,” and “Get enough sleep,” in them. But uh, it’s gray outside, it’s cold, I feel shitty, there’s no snow, I have to work tomorrow, everyone hates me, I hate everything, I can’t get enough sleep ’cause reasons, and, oh yeah, what “favorite activities?” Are you storming kidding me?
My modus operandi is to take a plan, any plan, and find one good excuse to jettison it so I can go sit and not write and stare at the dusty piano and feel sorry for myself.
So, in the name of self-preservation, it’s time to force myself to help myself against my will. Does this sound familiar? It’s sooooo hard! Exercise and sunlight are the topics for this Sunday, and a wan, winter sunlight it will be. How to get there:
I have learned to mechanically program my body to do the things to prepare for the activity, “just in case I change my mind.” Perform tasks, be the automaton, just like at work. Task A, B, C. Miserably put on clothes, drink coffee, eat breakfast, doggedly put on shoes and tie laces in spite of cat helping, and then … the danger point … go back to pee and look for phone.
Once past that, shove the body out of the door with will alone, and … outside. Having someone pushing helps.
I’m still depressed, though, and not having fun, because I’m depressed, and depression is tenacious as a headache. But you know what? Feeling the warmth on my face, the light on my eyelids, watching the solid tranquility of twisted junipers with the breeze whishing through them, hearing good music or clattering freight trains … I’m not enjoying it. I don’t want to be here … the energy is just soaking into the body and brain without me. The sights, sounds, and smells are ambling right in through the eyes, ears, and nose into the “animal hindbrain.” I think about that objectively, how I’m mad, but that’s not stopping the sunlight from penetrating or the images of my surroundings from imprinting themselves.
This involuntary absorption of healing influences is a thing. It will do its job. Going outside for sun and exercise does result in reduced stress, stabilized or elevated mood, increased energy, and better sleep. But yes, sometimes, it has to be forced.
Some days, I can’t see a way forward. This is one of those days. Climate is stressful. Future uncertain. I can’t bear the thought of going to work. I’m afraid of losing my job. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how long I can hang on. I need change.
What to do, what to do. Call my provider’s crisis line? My self-esteem is too low to consider wasting their time.
When this happens, I have a hard time finding the solution-oriented person I’ve learned to become after 50 years of this. So, grasping at straws, I bang my way through piano music, making it up on the spot sometimes, almost invariably some repetitive doom-laden lacrimose storm front in the key of A minor. I update my Linkedin in the hope of finding some sort of freelance work in case the worst-case scenario comes to pass, and everything in my profile looks amateur and stupid. I immerse myself in tasks around the house that are normally satisfying, but I’m still hyperventilating.
When these feelings overwhelm, I can’t help worrying. I can’t help worrying that I’m relapsing. This feels like a mixed-manic shitshow.
And watching the world around me, it seems evident that I’m not alone, that this is nothing special. But your life matters. Go ahead and call the crisis line, if you are in my boat.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 800-273-TALK (8255)
I have moved to the floor out of respect for an older woman who has arrived, a friend of the hostess. The cool of the brown carpet chills me, though at my back the woodstove throws heat which rises up and over me. The long, lustrous brown table, cluttered with fruit and nuts and wine and books and breads and beer, separates me from the man who brought me here. He is sprawled upon the couch opposite, the only male among the gathered poets, the whites of his eyes glowing between the dark curls of his hair and the bushy mustache, darker still.
I look around at the assembly, women all, of every age and description. Some are old and well-read, some seasoned writers; the young ones bring imagination instead of experience to their art. The smell of their wine is something I cannot escape, acute and heady like strong scented flowers. It makes me slightly dizzy.
I have not been to a gathering like this in too many years. Farm life has dulled the edge of my wit. Happiness and acceptance have made me a poor critic. I cannot impress these people, I think, nor even present myself as worthy to be among them.
It has been a long time since I gathered up words like branches and tossed them into huge, tousled piles for the sheer joy of their design, their many textures and shapes making a rat’s nest of forms and colors: iridescent purples, shrieking magentas, dried-out grays, with knobby joints like an old man’s knuckles, or skewer ends sticking out everywhere.
The young girl, who feels the need to clarify that she is not a Rastafarian—perhaps because of her vivid sweater of yellow and orange and green and red—heaves words together with luxurious abandon, bathing herself in in the sound and flash of light, in a glory of enthusiasm and innocence. They mean almost nothing to me, but the sensory experience of them thrills. She belongs here, with the word artists.
The older women, with their carefully written lines, convey in images and strong voices ideas so well-formed that I feel inarticulate. Ideas spark more ideas, criticisms spark inspirations, agreements, disagreements, leaving everyone full and helped. I say little.
Oh, I am keenly interested, but am rendered wordless. I am inspired, but I don’t belong. I write “that stuff–no offense.” I know long before my turn arrives that my visions have no place here. I would like to transcend my genre, but I feel I have to apologize for it. I feel like I need to defend it. I feel like these narrow-minded scholars could benefit so very much from fantasy, if they would only listen.
Like in Amadeus, “too many notes” becomes the accusation against me, but I laugh it off. I know there is a tendency in my work towards abundant description. I am not defensive about it. When I finish, they exclaim and clap.
When can I read this book? What happens, what does he do with the infant?
He names it, of course. If he doesn’t there would be no story, Karla observes. Karla is no dummy.
And here I am, explaining it. Alice wants to know how I can write that stuff. “This came to me when I was only ten, that is why it is the way it is. I write it because I have to.” Why do I write that stuff? “If I don’t, I go crazy.” Natural answers to reasonable questions.
I am like a bucking horse – I mean, a horse that bucks. Almost every horse bucks, eventually, during his or her life. Some are forgiven; some are not. I’m like one of our rescue horses, given to instantaneous bucking fits, no warning, just instant bronc mode. Sometimes though, I give warning, crow-hops, but in general, these warnings are ignored.
I figure I must live in a state of forgiveness for my bucking, or I would be shot or abandoned by now. Committed to an asylum or sent to the sale barn. Yet it doesn’t feel like I’m being forgiven. It feels like I am kicked and beaten every time I’m down. That I’m still here argues for forgiveness. These repeated beatings argue for unforgiveness.
Things begin to happen, but like my stories, they go nowhere. I need to be sent to a sale barn. A sale barn for useless, problem wives, to be auctioned off, packed into a truck, and taken away on a journey that will end in slaughter. Humane or inhumane matters not, since being stuck in this life is in itself inhumane.
Today, I hate being bipolar. Today, it seems bipolar is me, so I must hate myself and my life. I have tried and tried not to let bipolar get me down, but it’s apparently hopeless. Apparently, I am supposed to be grateful for my disease because it is teaching me so much about life – that would be useful to me if I didn’t have the disease, but as it is, such knowledge is useless!
Suicidal ideation was happening! I was so mad at hubby and frustrated with my earlier behavior that I wanted to pop a bullet into my brain, the very horror I had believed would never manifest again.
I would have gone past considering it, I think, if the family wouldn’t lose everything without my disability check. Or, if I didn’t owe them all better for having lived with and tolerated me and my disease for so long already. Or, if I didn’t owe God for dying for my sins. Or, if I didn’t care about ruining my children’s lives.
I cannot believe God tolerated Jonah’s anger and simply explained to him why it was unjustified. But he did. For that, God only deserves gratitude on the part of Jonah and of me.
Siege of the Spirit 