Footstep Fanatic

Each footstep was faster as I walked to therapy. My breath was heavy and on the verge of panic. I could feel all these emotions swirling in my body. Anger, sadness, shame, despair.  It wasn’t as if one dominated. They all took up space. I don’t usually walk, but today it was paramount I not drive my car. The call to jump off the bridge was loud and clear. I entertained it for several minutes as I sat in the drivers seat, key in the ignition.  My plan was to say goodbye to my therapist, say goodbye to my AA support group and disappear.
Enter thoughts of my husband. I love this man. He can certainly drive me crazy, but ultimately he has been there since day 1. I was just as issue ridden 16 yrs ago, it just looked a little different. It seems like I had a lot more strengths and skills than I do now. Whatever I brought to the table, he could see it.
It has really hit me hard how much I need him. Although I’m not sure in an entirely good way. I understand it’s okay to need people in your life to prop you up sometimes. However, my only reason for existence is him. I can find no inner purpose, no redeeming quality in myself that renders me worthy of taking up space. That’s sad in itself. What’s worse, at least in this moment, is he is out of town.  I am crumbling.
I push him and everyone else away. I think I can do this on my own. I think I am strong. I’m not. I’m so very weak.
How is it different when he is home? There is structure. I actually get up and go to work. I actually just get up, regardless of work.  These past few days I have slept til 2 in the afternoon.  There is a tone, a sort of expectation in the air to carry on. I follow that lead. Of course, if I absolutely can’t, it’s a different story.  I shower. I eat 3 meals. Things that are routine to him and general society go out the window.  I just stop doing anything. Mostly I cry and believe the world is better off without me.
When he is home there is some sort of distraction from the demons in my head. Right now, the demons are swallowing me whole.  Pick up the phone fanatic!! I just cannot seem to do this. I write this over and over. It’s no joke. I can’t. I have tried a few times. At a very desperate time, 2 yrs ago I called and was honest in the moment. It’s agonizing for me. The words just don’t come and then I feel guilt and shame for calling at all.
I am so black and white. So extreme. At work I grind away at being “the best” striving for some mysterious standard I have set. I claw my way toward some elusive top. I can never be on top or measure up because I am simply not good enough. I think ahead of my boss on some projects, over prepare, over organize. Not necessarily looking for accolades from her but to satisfy some inner longing to feel whole, necessary, significant. I beat myself into the ground til I’m crawling the halls refusing to allow myself a break or a day off. Yet, here I am off work this week because I can’t perform melding into my bed. There is no in between. It’s killing me.
The shame I harbor about having bipolar and the limitations it causes me is painful. It’s not okay with me that extreme stress takes me out, while others still show up. It’s not okay with me I have memory loss and it affects my job performance. It’s not okay with me I sometimes have extreme agitation and cannot be in a work environment. These same issues affect my personal life. I can no longer share memories w my husband because they just aren’t there. I try so hard to conjure them up, but to no avail. Sometimes I can’t stand his voice or touch.  Sometimes I cry at baseball games for no reason.  Poor fucking fanatic!!
Acceptance. Perfectionism. Self compassion. What a long road it’s been. What an even longer road it’s going to be if I don’t work on some things. I’m stuck in a what’s the point loop. I’m cursed. I’m doomed. This is lifelong. No matter which door I choose, bipolar will be with me, as well as alcoholism.  That’s a fact.  Seems there is so much fiction wrapped up in all this for me, which fuels the loop and closes the door.

How do you find the strength to walk through the door each day with whatever is on your back?

Fanatic Find

I ended up chairing at my Depression in Sobriety meeting last night. I wasn’t necessarily expecting to. My heart started racing. My mind was yelling at me You have nothing to share. No one wants to hear from you.  My thinking was already tremendously disorganized and I didn’t know where to start. After a minute maybe two, I decided to really speak the truth. I have not said out loud to anyone that I had a full blown manic episode and suicide attempt in the same month last year. Sure, I’ve written about it, but not heard the words coming out of my mouth. At the time of mania in Nov 2014, I came quite close to drinking. I came even closer last month as I had a bottle in hand. Somehow I managed to put it down and leave the store.  I already know what would happen if I took a drink.
Afterwards, I couldn’t tell you what I said in the share. I went from Nov to present as the folks in that meeting know my previous history. I was nervous, but not. It’s an intimate group for the most part and they honestly air where they are at…suffering, pain, fear, shame. They speak my language. This is no ordinary meeting. We are real with each other and honor our struggles.
One gentleman with a lot of time on the books was sharing that he feels like what he talks about is all negative”shit.”  I agree w him when it’s me who is sharing.  But when he is letting us in to his world and trusting us, it’s feels brave and honest and a special gift for us.  But I understand at the same time. Venting can be considered negative. But perhaps it’s just seeking relief from what we tend to keep bottled up for our safety.
Letting people know the real fanatic is not easy for me. I am scared of how you might respond. Believe I will be rejected. My very own husband, bless him, can react in the moment so harshly it triggers shame in me. I do try hard to have compassion for him as I know it’s difficult on the other side. Nonetheless it’s painful and confusing when the one you love the most reacts how I envision others would.
As the night wore on I began to breakdown every second of my share. By the time I went to bed I was spinning. You could probably guess I didn’t get much sleep. I tore myself to shreds. I rehearsed what I should of said over and over.  Planned how I would approach it next time even though there may not be a next time. My dear friend was kind enough to send me a text following the meeting and told me my share was awesome because I was so unfiltered and honest.  Boy did my mind run with that and determine he just felt sorry for me and was trying to make me feel better.  The two other gentlemen, who usually chat with me in some fashion after meetings said nothing. My mind told me I scared them off, I shared too much, I was showing off.  It NEVER stops.  I’m exhausted and worn down.
Thinking about it this morning I discovered I did find some relief in those moments of truth and authenticity. I was supported by lovely people. I hope to carry this through my day. Yesterday I told a friend I might need to take medication to work. Maybe thoughts of support, friendship, honesty, and shared feelings will be enough.

Reaching Fanatic

Reaching out
I beg of you to take my hand
I am drifting
I am lost
The chaos of my mind
Antagonizes
The words and sentiment I whisper to myself
Are nothing but hatred and disgust
I am everything wrong
There is no space for me
No safe place for me
I search for the key
To let you in my chamber
But keep the door closed for protection
From who
From me and
from you
I am so afraid for you to peer into me
Know my broken insides
Truly see and hear my pain
Yet I am so desperate to feel heard
To feel I matter
I belong
I have something to offer
Instead I retreat
Hide the key
Sit at the river alone
Pieces of glass pressed to my wrist
Relief never comes
So much confusion
So much desperation
I’ve lost sight as to how I fit
Into this big world
I suit up
Show up
And put on a show
All the while
I am dying on the inside
I’ve played this game for awhile
Until overwhelm sets in
I cry in the darkness
I slowly shut people out
And implode

123 RV, SA, PA, PH, TL , SA , RW, JZ, JV!

Fanatic Friend

I’m speaking directly to you
Dear friend
Many a memory is lost
Forgotten or
Hidden
All but the copious times
You have listened
Smiled
laughed or
Cried with me
Never have you judged
Sighed
Or rolled your eyes
As i fumble to express
This so called life
Never have you pointed
Yelled or
Told me what to do
Maybe softly, gently
Suggesting
Passing on what you’ve learned
Hard lessons along the way
Lines of communication always open
Even when I don’t oblige or
Quite the opposite
Fielding my questions of existence
At rapid pace
We each have our dance
With the unrelenting devil
And yet you have carried me
To sacred ground
Time and time again
While I cant shelter you
From your pain
I can offer to be
The same friend you are to me

Fanatical Mess

  I stared at it for a very long time. Closed my eyes and relished the taste. I picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. Third time I held it in my hand and carefully placed it in my basket.  Walking around the store nonchalantly as the battle in my head was growing louder.  A debate really.  Do it. Don’t do it. You have 2 years. You deserve relief. This will surely kill you. Is that a bad thing?
Up and down the aisles I pace for 20 minutes. Visual thoughts, like snippets from a movie play out. Scenes of me attempting suicide. The beast of Bipolar meets the beast of alcoholism face to face in the grocery store. Both feeding me lies to get their needs met. Both forever on my coat tails. Drinking alcohol in this state of mind is like assisted suicide. But today, I’ll take what I can get. Desperation at its core.
I have paced these aisles before with bottle in hand making sure no one from AA was around. Obviously during a relapse. If I did see someone I would put my basket down and quickly exit the store and go somewhere else. Finally I got the brilliant idea to buy out of town as I travel for work, sometimes on a daily basis. But that was 2 yrs and 3 months ago.  Today I am risking my life for a swig of vodka.
The emotional pain is undeniable, yet I deny it everyday.  My truth is not being heard because I don’t know how to express it. Shame holds me captive. Strong feelings and emotional reactions confuse me. I spin and spin wondering if how I feel is appropriate. Is it rational. Is it just. A friend once said to me any feeling I ever have regardless of the situation is okay, because they are mine. Great theory I cannot seem to implement.
For example I was at the gas station and a man in a oversized truck wanted the same stall I was pulling into. As I was backing up to get closer to the tank he moved forward towards me. I assumed he was doing the same thing. Turns out he moved to block me from lining up to the pump. I stared at him and threw my hands up and he did the same. I was yelling at him from inside my car.  Finally I mouthed what are you doing. He pointed at the pump and shrugged his shoulders. I was so angry. I backed up and moved to the next pump over.  I started to get gas and proceeded to march over to him and started yelling. I told him how fucking lucky he was to be queen bee and own the place, among other things. In essence lost my mind. I was shaking. Got in my car and broke down.  I pulled over and called a friend which was a huge step, but I couldn’t talk to him. I told him I am a ticking time bomb. I hung up quickly and cried.  When my husband called I told him and he congratulated me. He said it’s okay to get angry over such an event. I just felt out of control. I don’t want to act that way. It’s confusing.
My desire to drink to rid myself of pain, to stop the spinning, to make that final jump off the bridge is the highest it’s been in 2 years.  In some sick way, my mind is thinking if I drink my husband will leave me (as he has declared he would) then it won’t hurt him as much when I’m gone. I am one messed up fanatic.

Fanatic’s Friend

It seems so unfair to be accused of being manic because I had a really good day. I was motivated, funny, responsive, alert, alive at work. Came home cleaned the house, folded laundry and had music up loud. Even did a little dancing (but he doesn’t know that). True, this is out of the ordinary. True it’s a big swing in mood considering I was suicidal on Saturday(he doesn’t know that either). But I’m not sure it qualifies me as being manic.
In the span of 10 minutes my husband became concerned, worried, anxious about the state of my mood. He asked me 3 times if I was “okay”..not manic. Poor guy doesn’t know what to do with me. He stated he needs to know what he is in for so he can prepare. Not sure if he has a manic disaster preparation kit or something.  Perhaps he wants to prepare his own mind for an out of control fanatic he constantly has to redirect.
I often wonder why he has stayed with me over the years. He revealed to me over the weekend he asks himself this very same question. I mean he had to have me placed on a 5150 hold very early into our relationship. He would come over around 4 and I would have the curtains closed, drinking vodka and eating popcorn. I was anorexic at this time but became bulimic and a practicing alcoholic. I was not yet diagnosed with bipolar. I was a handful to say the least, but he continued to hang in there.
I was also fun, up for a good time, and open to adventures. We met on the job. I did so many things with him I had never done before. We hit it off right away. We would play tennis after work and go to happy hour almost everyday.  We had good chemistry and enjoyed sarcastic banter. We laughed ALOT.  At least until I dove into depression again.
I started to hit the bottle hard, but was still a functioning alcoholic for about 2 years. The 3rd year of heavy, heavy drinking I was not functioning. I was blacking out most nights and could not remember what transpired, what was said or even what I did. I started changing my lingo to cover up the fact I couldn’t remember.  We got into fights every weekend because of my behavior in social situations. One particular night stands out where I drank before we went out with friends, you know pre-party to help with anxiety. Not eat dinner because I never knew if the alcohol would hit me hard enough, then drink while we were out. I was very drunk by the time the show started. I knew I needed food right away. I stumbled next door to order food. He of course followed me. I said out loud..get away from me..several times. The bartender asked me if he was bothering me. I said yes.  I said YES. He was asked to leave. We barely made it through that episode.
So, the mental health piece. He has watched me deteriorate into a lifeless, despondent, suicidal mess. He has witnessed rage, spewing angry and hateful words. He has seen me psychotic. He has talked me down from a bridge. He has reassured me the devil is not trying to kill me, God is not persecuting me, my psychiatric team is not conspiring against me and I do not work for the CIA. He brought me clean clothes in the psych hospital, driving up to 2 hours away.  He read an email that said I loved him but I have to split town, not knowing where I was. He took every single call on my manic spree as I yelled nonsense into the phone pacing the hotel floor.  And he held my hand in the emergency room when I overdosed on pills.
When I put it all into perspective he is a saint. I really have no right to blame him for checking to see if I’m manic. He goes through hell just as I do. He is tired, as I am. I try to be conscious of this, but truthfully I can be selfishly immersed in my bipolar disorder.  He loves me so damn much. Least I can do is honor his fears and desire to know where I’m at w my moods. I’ve said this before and failed. I hope to change that.

“There’s all kinds of weakness in the world…”

“…and not all of them are evil.”    I’m sitting outside my favorite place for sociological experimentation, Peet’s coffee in Napa, and I just saw someone walk by who I used to work with  in the wine industry about 38 years ago. I observed that my old friend was probably 100 pounds heavier than when I knew him when we both worked at the winery. The common aspect of life that he and I share is that we’re both alcoholics. I don’t know if Bill is still drinking anymore, it really doesn’t matter. What I noticed is that I was looking at him with empathy. It was obvious, his struggle because of weight.  Yet I can’t really see that same aspect of life for me.  I cant see that my struggle to be present is no different than his.
How this relates to the original quote is that my mind wants to see all of my weaknesses as evil.  All of my shortcomings are about something intrinsically wrong with me, there is something “wrong,” about my existence. So I’m left with the dilemma of working to fully understand and deeply knowing that I am no different, no worse, no more evil than the next person walking down the street.

This is not an easy thing to do. So often I unconsciously shame  myself, blame myself for my weaknesses.

Depression is no different than any other weakness.  In 12 step  programs they call them “character defects.”  I rail against that term because to say I am responsible for my depression is like saying my friend Bill, from the winery days, is responsible for his dis-ease.  I wish I could say that I have overcome this part of my self, my shame, but I cant.  I think by saying it here that it is getting better, but  I have to acknowledge that I haven’t overcome it.

I just watched a man my age go by in one of those motorized trikes.  He was with his daughter, who was a teenager, and I did  not look at him with the disdain that I look at myself unconsciously with.  I am hoping that there is a change that is coming about and that I can start to look at myself without the shame that is so dominant in my unconscious.

This struggle is what keeps me from really breaking out from the chains of the stigma that depression binds me with.

Opening quote is from the movie “Ulee’s Gold.”

Fanatic’s Wall

The truth hits home
like a brick through a wall
Powerful and loud.
Shatters dreams.
Shatters hope
Questions left unanswered
Science one step behind
There is no cure ma’am
This condition is life long
ALL your life in stereo
Quivering of the reality
Things will never be the same
I am not the same
A quiet desperation takes hold
Screaming on the inside
Oh so scared
And brutally confused
Retracing steps
Of years gone by
One ripple effect
From a childhood storm
Could that be it?
One too many drinks
Could that be it?
God is punishing me
Could that be it?
I went left instead of right
Could that be it?
Forever searching
Forever banging my head
But in the end
There’s still no cure

123 RV, SA, PA, JW, RW, JZ

Frantic Fanatic

The ticking of the clock is all I hear. I find myself rocking back and forth in this chair. Eyeing the clock.  Wanting to throw the clock. Thoughts are fast. Too fast. Much too fast. I’m going to explode. Mind is spinning in so many directions.  Nothing coherent.  Nothing useful. I can’t keep still. I need to yell. Thrash about. I am at work. Must remain contained. Cool. Calm. Deep breathing can’t be done. The room is too small and too big at the same time. I feel a rush of expectations,  of need, of grandiose responsibility.  Checking emails obsessively so I can be the first to respond. Reaching into the future where I can predict people’s responses, their every move. Control. I want all control, yet I am so out of control it slips through my fingers.  Paper and pen at the ready for my brilliant ideas. They are swirling, taking shape in the recesses of my mind. Sometimes they light up the ceiling of my bedroom as I am going to bed. Sleep. No sleep. Ideas. Ideas. But I can’t remember the ideas. I chase them. I covet them. That fucking clock. My eyes dart around the room. I can’t focus on any one thing. I wring my hands. Can’t stop moving. Can’t complete sentences as my thoughts run wild. Nonsensical.  Stuttering.  Not whimsical.  Intense. Or maybe whimsical then intense. I can’t keep track. Can’t follow. That damn clock. Stains on the floor. Stains on the chairs. Traffic whizzing by. Does my hair look okay? Am I okay?  Pacing the room. Touching the stark white walls. Spread paper on the table. They will come. Ideas will spread like wildfire. I will capture them all. They are mine. Destiny. Magnificence. Maybe write them on the wall. Just you wait and see.

Fallen Fanatic

  Fallen into utter sadness
Deep searing pain
Reaches every part of me
Ravaging my insides
Damaging my soul
Perpetuating loss of self
A catastrophic heart ache
No echo of hope
Silence fills the room
While chaos fills my mind
The treasure of sunshine unseen
As I dig deeper into darkness
Chapters of my life
Written and unwritten
Suppressed and forgotten
Spill onto the floor
The truth of my demons revealed
No rhyme or reason
Why memories collide
Shame pulls the trigger
Salty water skims my eye
Shackled and alone
My threshold long surpassed
I simply desire to die

123 RV, SA, JW, PA, JZ, RW