Truth is, as I sit here finally actually at my computer, with the right page open, trying to end my avoidance, everything inside me is shaking and I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my throat.
Truth is, I haven’t been able to write in weeks. Either because I was too numb, too embarrassed, too sick, too well, but mainly too scared of not only being honest with myself but truly open to everyone who reads this – especially the people from “real life.”
Truth is, I’m writing from the most secluded table I could find at a local coffee shop – I can’t write from home, you see, because I haven’t had electricity in days.
Truth is, even when I’m at my best I have this weird extreme aversion to checking my mailbox – but I had my bill, and had the money to pay it, and was reminded several times to take care of it, and still just refused to allow the situation to penetrate my brain at all.
Truth is, I’m terrified of the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back – I see everything as symptoms, possibly ultimately leading to another total break with reality and (possibly protective) catatonic incapacitated state.
Truth is, there were a few days last week when I literally couldn’t make myself move from wherever I was – I could be on the couch, parked somewhere in the car, wherever.
Truth is, my therapist tells me if my greatest fear is that I’m going crazy, the only way to overcome is to be able to accept that I may go crazy at any moment and there’s absolutely nothing that can be done to totally prevent it – I started crying right in the middle of her sentence.
Truth is, my house is growing to be more and more of a disaster by the day, and I can’t bring myself to do a damn thing about it, even though I know in my head I can break it into small tasks, that I am capable of achieving them, that I can stop any time, that my environment affects my well being, that once even one thing is done I will be more relaxed and at ease – but none of that matters and now of course everything in the fridge is spoiled and I have that to deal with to boot – I refuse to let anyone in.
Truth is, I am ridiculously competent at my job, but as soon as I walk out the door I fall to pieces – it makes me resent only being allowed to work part time and at the same time realize how sick I am that there’s no way I could go back to my old schedule and responsibilities without rapidly deteriorating – and that dichotomy bounces back and forth in my head every day, constantly, until I want to scream and curl up in a ball crying all at once – but really I just sit stoically.
Truth is, even though I truly enjoy getting lost in the MOOC courses I’m taking, I avoid them like the plague for no reason whatsoever and a million reasons too – most recently even though I got myself to the library (to avoid my house) and got everything spread out and hooked up, I felt I had to copy course notes from the notebook I had been using into a new notebook that I went and purchased several off so that they would all match for each course – it took me 90 minutes and I was so tense while I was doing it I could barely move my body at all and by the end of it my writing hand felt broken and about to bleed.
Truth is, a few weeks ago I shaved my legs the whole way up (all in one go) for the first time in about 2 years in order to go swimming with my friend and her girls – I had declined every invitation for the same last summer due to the overwhelmingly daunting task – and felt proud and unashamed until it came time to keep up with it and I haven’t been able to jump that particular hurdle since – thankfully I wear scrubs everyday.
Truth is, as of ‘press time’ I’m totally out of clean scrubs though my collection is quite impressive – it seems that any time I was able to get myself moving I was too daunted by the consequent task of gathering and totally roadblocked by the realities of transporting the load to a second location for actual laundering – my car is filled to the brim with such a myriad of nonsense that the laundry basket would have no place.
Truth is, though I know a lot of people, I have very few real friends – and every single one of those few either lives hours away or has a family and children that divides their time – and I end up spending more time feeling lonely and (though logically unjustified) abandoned than I realized.
Truth is, sometimes I don’t pick up the phone when people do call/reach out because I’m somehow too afraid of having some sort of episode in the middle of the conversation or whatever activity I agree to and having to try to explain it to the other person and/or escape and then the person could decide I really am crazy and ultimately decide I’m too much trouble and actually abandon me – I recognize this is all in my head but I can’t break the cycle.
Truth is, people seem to describe me as free spirited, upbeat, and humorous – and my only explanation is that they must have formed this opinion when I was manic and it somehow stuck with them for whatever reason and I absolutely must not let them realize its all a facade and I’m secretly this ridiculous destitute mess – or am I?
Truth is, I’ve been working on the same 4 seemingly beyond simple basic principles for about a year and a half in therapy – eat regularly, sleep on a schedule, take my medication, and practice daily self-care – I still forget to eat until I nearly pass out or binge until I’m sick, rely on distracting hypnoses and meditations to sleep when I can actually bring myself to go to bed, I have to use all kinds of reminders and tricks to take my medications but I do almost always manage it, and standard self care even now seems like a pipe dream.
Truth is, the mindfullness based practice of wholly focusing on absolutely one thing at a time, no matter how absurdly minute the pieces have to be broken down into, was really helping wonderfully when it came to reducing anxiety and focusing – hell I could even make myself do it in the chaos of daily life at the office – until all of a sudden one day it felt like something in a chain link broke and I simply lost my ability to do it with no warning or reason whatsoever.
Truth is, I feel terrified all the time – mainly terrified of what feeling so terrified is doing/could do to my health, my mind, my life.
Truth is, I don’t fit the spoon theory – I can have 2 spoons a day for like a week then one afternoon like 15 will suddenly appear, and as quickly as they come they’re gone again – and what I accomplish when I have them seems so incredibly productive to me, let’s say taking out the trash AND making a necessary phone call – but laughable in the grand scheme of “normal” life
Truth is, I’m furious at a distant Scottish relative who I doubt I ever even met as a baby for committing suicide even though she was a lifetime alcoholic with severe mental health issues – because if she can just up and quit life one day after all the help and support she had her whole life, who I am to think that it couldn’t one day be me – and that shakes me to the core.
Truth is, even as I just wrote about eating and I sit here in a restaurant with my stomach gurgling on the verge of hunger or illness, the ordeal of getting up, figuring out what to eat, ordering, paying, deciding whether to eat here alone or take it home and eat in the dark is just too much to bother with.
Truth is, I think things are pretty fucking bad regardless of how much my therapist, family, and friends remind me of how far I’ve come since I was hospitalized in February.
Truth is, how the fuck is someone who is bipolar with anxiety supposed to get through the fear of being crazy when most of the time they can’t even brush their teeth?
Yeah, that one was hard to explain to my dentist.