Daily Archives: June 30, 2014

Missing…My motivation

I got up and dressed today. Was going to go to the shop, Bex agreed to babysit for an hour or so. Except she didn’t get up til nearly 1pm (fuck you seroquel) and by then…the heat and all the kids running in and out had me losing motivation. I was determined…and then…I just can’t make myself to do it. In fact, the thought of going outside my door sends me into an inexplicable panic.

The professionals like to spew about triggers and patterns and there HAS to be one, you’re just not seeing it.

There truly is no rhyme or reason to my mood swings, my anxiety, my paranoia. It sweeps in from nowhere for no reason and I try to do battle but nine times out of ten, I fail. I feel these emotions down to my bone even as I try to talk myself out of them with self bullying. Get up and just do it, you loser! Get over it, you’re being a wuss! Don’t be a child, grow up and grow a pair!

I am so sick of this rinse, lather, repeat cycle. So sick of not being able to make sense of it all. I can’t fix it if it doesn’t follow some logic that I can view as dysfunctional and try to correct.

This is where my confusion becomes all encompassing. Am I bipolar or do I just have a bad personality and weak character? They send so many mixed messages. One will say it’s the bipolar or anxiety. One will say it’s my personality and I am not pushing myself hard enough. If it’s both, how do I distinguish between disorder and dysfunction?

Personally, I’m not convinced I have a personality to be disordered. I am my illness. It doesn’t define me as a person, but it taints my every thought and action every minute of the day. If I’m not in my right mind, how can I determine what’s wrong with it?


And I melting in the humidity, my clothes sticking to me, making me even grumpier.

I was fine earlier.

Nothing happened.

Now I am in the abyss.

What. The. Fuck.

Behind the yellow door, a man’s mental illness worsens – The Washington Post



Everyone is worried about the man in the house.

His ex-wife, his mother, his father, his neighbors, the psychiatrists he has seen and no longer sees, they are all concerned because he has been alone in the house in suburban Maryland for two years.

No one knows what he is doing. No one knows what he is thinking, what he is eating or how he is surviving. In two years, since his frightened wife took their three young boys and left him there alone, he has not spoken to anyone for more than a few minutes. He has not let anyone beyond the front door, which he has fortified with a new lock, a piece of plastic bolted over the window, and a piece of plywood bolted below that, all of which he has painted a bright shade of yellow. He keeps the living room curtains shut.

The man in the house, a 42-year-old who once earned six figures working on Capitol Hill and was a devoted husband and father, tells his family that he is not sick, even though a psychological evaluation found he had “a schizoaffective disorder, depressive type with persecutory delusions.”

As far as they know, he has stopped taking the psychiatric medication prescribed after he told police that God was speaking through his 3-year-old son. He has quit his job and stopped paying bills. His family doesn’t know what to do.

His mother leaves bags of groceries on the porch. His ex-wife sends text messages, and his responses are increasingly worrying, such as when he refers to his sons as his “suns.” His father is always leaving a version of the same phone message — “Hey, this is dad. Let me know if you want to come out and talk. We love you. We care about you.” — which his son never answers.

Once, the man’s family might have handled the situation by having him involuntarily committed to a psychiatric institution. For decades, it was a routine and simple procedure: If a doctor agreed that the patient had a mental illness, he could be institutionalized even against his will.

The problem was that it was a process with few safeguards, and during much of the 20th century, all kinds of people who didn’t belong — from free-thinking women to gay people, minorities and rebellious children — wound up locked in hospitals where abuse was common and conditions were often bleak.

Fitness Update June 22, 2014

An Important Announcement The weekend both the name and web address for this blog changed: The new name is “Insights from a Bipolar Bear” The new web address is www.insightsbipolarbear.com Please update your favorites list. Why a Fitness Update on a Bipolar Blog? Over 80 percent of people with serious mental illnesses, such as schizophrenia, […]

The post Fitness Update June 22, 2014 appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

I’m Here

A few years ago I read Alice Walker's The Color Purple. I thought it was a good book. And a few years later I saw it on Broadway. I really liked the soundtrack. There's one song, "I'm Here," that particularly spoke to me. It is about courage, and strength, and resiliency, and self-love. I love it. I sometimes think of it as my anthem. Here it is.

I got my children

I can't hold them now

They may not be here

But they still mine

I hope they know I still love them

Got my house

It still keep the cold out

Got my chair when my body can't hold out

Got my hands doing good like they supposed to

Showing my heart to the folks that I'm close to

I got my eyes though they don't see as far now

They see more about how things really are now

I'm gonna take a deep breath
I'm gonna hold my head up
I'm gonna put my shoulders back
And look you straight in the eye
I'm gonna flirt with somebody when they walk by
I'm gonna sing up, sing up
I believe I have inside of me everything that I need to live a bountiful life
With all the love alive in me
I'll stand as tall as the tallest tree
Yes, I'm thankful for each day that I'm given
Both the easy and hard one's I'm living
But most of all I'm thankful for loving who I really am
I'm beautiful
Yes, I'm beautiful
And I'm here

Black Blossoms

Now that the worst appears to be over, I want to invite my readers into the room in which I’ve spent a good portion of the past couple of weeks. Don’t be afraid; just take my hand and come with me for a few moments. I promise to return you safely.

It is a cheerless, windowless room with no decoration save for a vase full of roses which are as black as the night…..as black as the thoughts of death that have both repulsed and attracted me so often in recent days. They are as beautifully constructed as any natural rose, and yet they give off an odor so noxious that you can hardly bear to be near them. You wrinkle your nose at the sickish-sweet smell and turn to leave, only to discover that the door is locked behind you, trapping you in the room with those ghastly black blossoms and a sense of apprehension.

At first, the feeling is one of mild-to-moderate anxiety. You cast about for something you can use to force that door open, and find nothing. Then you call out, hesitantly in the beginning for fear of rousing whatever ugly spirit may reside in a dark corner; but soon your cries grow louder and more insistent as the wave of panic builds. Finally you start to scream….until you realize that no one can hear you. Because there is no one to hear you. It’s only you, alone in a world which seems to be closing in on you…..and of course, there are the roses. Always the roses.

Strangely, their numbers begin to multiply as desperate thoughts of freedom torment you. There has to be a way out! In your mind’s eye you can see the bottle of pills in your medicine cabinet…..the knives in the kitchen…..the pistol in the drawer. Any one of these would set you free, but you choose the pills because you don’t want to leave a mess for your loved ones to find. Because you’re thoughtful like that. It never occurs to you that it won’t matter to them how you left them, only that you chose to leave them.

You find yourself longing for the feel of the bottle in your hand and imagining the sweet release that would follow the consumption of its contents. After all, you can’t stay locked in here forever, not with that death-smell and those freakish ebony rose petals blooming with every dark thought. You feel your sanity unraveling and wonder how bad this is going to get before it’s over. And as if that weren’t frightening enough…..what if it’s NEVER over? What hellish fate is waiting for you there in the gathering blackness?

And that, Constant Reader, is depression with suicidal ideation.

I’m not quite out of the woods yet, but I’m no longer imprisoned in that windowless room, entertaining fantasies of death. I refuse to take on tomorrow’s worries, because today is all that’s promised to me. And I give thanks that the darkness has gone, the sun is out, and the only roses in my vase are the fresh-cut Hot Chocolates from my front yard. Life is good. And I choose to live.