It was a dream that I had this morning that prompted me to write this journal, since I can type a little better than I write.
My ex and I were laying in bed together. I turned over to face her and gave her a very passionate kiss on the lips. The feelings that I got from this were strong and it was this "butterfly feeling" in my heart that awoke me from the dream.
I wonder what can this mean: I think it represents my feeling of love and remembrance of good times and passion we shared together.
"Clean your room!"
Every kid hears that at one point or another, right?
I was a frequent offender.
Okay maybe a bit more than that...
My room was in a constant state of disarray. Like straight from the movie "Twister."
It wasn't because I was lazy or anything, it was because I was comforted by the cluttered furniture and overflowing clean laundry baskets. Everything had a place, and I knew where to find it (general direction anyways).
After many failed attempts of getting me to clean up my room, my mother just gave in, gave up.
Or so I thought..
Then one day I come home from school to a neat and tidy room that I didn't recognize.
I freaked the fuck out!
My safe place was gone. I couldn't breathe.
If I were any normal kid I would have been happy that I was able to skip the dirty work. But, I wasn't a normal kid by any means.
I immediately threw all of the neatly folded clothes to the floor, emptied out my newly organized bookshelves and massacred all of the work mother did. I felt violated, I needed my chaos.
Here I am years later and an adult and I think back to that day and it makes sense. It finally clicked.
You see, I was diagnosed with bipolar a few years ago, although I've suffered with it for as long as I remember. I'm currently figuring out what medications "work" for me. I know I'll need to be on them for the rest of my life. I get that, I do.
But I feel like I'm suffocating.
My messy room is an exact mirror image to what it's like inside my head. I've lived with the chaotic thoughts and rapid mood swings for so long, that it's comforting in a way. I hate it, I hate not having a second to breathe. I hate climbing the highs and then crashing down to terrible lows in the blink of an eye. I hate that I can't sleep for days because my mind won't stop!
But it's become home to me.
Medication is like coming home to the room I don't recognize all over again. I don't recognize myself and it scares the fuck out of me. I don't know who I am anymore.
So, just like before, I will immediately destroy my newly organized mind and go off my medications.
Why is this so hard? Why can't I embrace the silence? It's what I wanted!
It's like I'm split in two; the rational me knows I need to gain control of my disorder to finally experience a slice of normalcy, and the bipolar me is terrified of who I'll become without the constant chaos. I'm so torn and so lost. I'm terrified.
But, it's not just me I have to worry about anymore. I have a husband and a 2 year old son who rely on me and are directly affected by my constant turmoil.
There was one week about 6 months ago where I was really good. I was happy! I was normal! And in turn, my husband and son were equally as happy.
But then I ruined it. I'd look in the mirror and I wouldn't recognize myself. It's like a stranger was looking back at me in my reflection.
I don't know who I am anymore, I don't know if I ever have. I've spent 23 years consumed by chaos, I don't know what will remain if that chaos goes away, what if I hate who I become? What if my family doesn't love the new "normal" me?
When I was little, my big brother would (in a good-natured way - never seriously!) hold my head under water until I thought I was going to drown, and then pull me up at what I thought was the last possible minute of life. I feel that way now - in my marriage.
I feel like I'm drowning over and over and at the last possible second of life for some reason I pull myself back up for a gulp of air and then the cycle begins again.
I know I need help. I know that I am probably at the emotional breakage point of needing to be committed. I know that at any second I feel like I am just going to not do it anymore - I am not going to pull myself up and I am just going to let myself drown.
You know what the worst part is - not being able to get the help you need. Knowing that so many days so much of you is screaming for help and knowing that you cannot ask for it because of the consequences.
I am preparing for a divorce - slowly but surely, I am preparing for a divorce. Being committed is fodder against my having the children. I cannot risk that. I cannot risk doing ANYTHING that could be counted against me in the divorce. I need help, I acknowledge that I need help, and I cannot ask for it.
So what do you do when your just biding your time until you can make the move you so desperately need to make for your own sanity?
What do you do on the days when a random person's simple kindness is enough to make you want to burst into tears?
What do you do on the days when you feel like you're an emotional wreck that cannot hold on anymore?
What do you do on the days where for a split second, you consider driving your car into the concrete median on the interstate before you tell yourself that you can't do that?
What do you do on the days when suicide, or perhaps homicide, feel like they are the only ways out?
What do you do on those days when you know - beyond a shadow of a doubt - you need help and you need it now and you cannot get it?
What do you do?
Wow, this is really hard to write. I've never written about it before.
I'm 22. I was raped in June of 2012.
I was at a party for my friend's brothers-in-law's high school graduation. I thought I could relax and have a good night. My friend was trying to hook me up with one of the brothers, but he was 18 and I was 20. I didn't like younger guys, so I wasn't really interested.
We were drinking. I remember I only had two drinks, but I couldn't walk, and I was throwing up so much. I would even black out for a minute and not remember how I got into another room.
I wanted to go home so bad, but my so-called friend said, "Its okay, just lay down." Stupid me, I did. The one brother came in and got in the bed next to me. The other one laid down on the floor. I didn't want him in bed with me, but she told me it was okay. I SHOULD NEVER HAVE LISTENED TO HER!
Next thing I knew, I couldn't move or say anything. I felt him in me, and I saw him on top of me. I felt like I wasn't in my body. I felt like I was standing up, watching it happen to me like in a dream. Then, I blacked out again. I opened my eyes because I felt more pain. It was his brother's turn.
I remember waking up at 4 am with no pants on, thinking it was just a dream. I ran down the stairs, out of the apartment, and went home.
The next two days, I just told myself "It was a dream, that's it!"
Father's Day came up, and my parents and I were going out for dinner. I got a phone call from my so-called friend. She told me it wasn't a dream and said I sounded like I had liked it! I told her I didn't want to have sex with them, but she didn't believe me. After she hung up, I fell to the ground and screamed. My mom came in, and I had to tell her what had happened. That was the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
They contacted me, and told me I can't go to the police because it's their word against mine.
I was so embarrassed. It started going around where I live that I was their graduation present from my so-called friend. They must have put something in my drink because I only had two drinks and couldn't move.
To this day, I feel like a failure and a slut. It's really hard, and I feel so alone. My own mother says I should get over it because when she was younger, she had to get over her mom dying. She doesn't realize I lost a part of me that night.
I really don't know what to do anymore. I just feel so lost and don't want to live any more.
When I was in college, I met someone. After six months, we moved in together. He was about four years older than me, very caring and dedicated, a successful young engineer with a brilliant mind.
About four years later, he started to act odd, eccentric at times. I didn't think much of it, thinking it was just related to all his responsibilities at work. But after a few months, something took over him. He wasn't just in a weird mood for an hour or two, it was all the time.
One evening, I was going to walk to the corner store, but he blocked my way to the door. He wouldn't let me leave because he didn't want anything to happen to me. He said they would get me. I just thought he didn't want me walking alone, so I told him to come with me. As I moved past him to open the door, he threw me many feet away, and said, "You don't understand how they know it all. They get all the information from listening to all phone calls, reading all mail, and they see us when we watch the TV." I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing.
I spent the next week in the apartment with him, without any way to communicate with the outside world. He pulled out all the land-line phone cords from the wall, disconnected the cable from the TV, covered the TV with a blanket, locked the doors, pulled down all the window shades, and closed the drapes. We lived mostly in the bedroom. He believed he was protecting me from harm. His work had the police knock on our door, but of course, I couldn't answer the door. His parents were contacted, but said we were probably just running around and not home.
He eventually recovered from this, and returned to work. He told them he had a personal issue, and they didn't pursue it.
But a few weeks later, it happened again. He ended up being admitted to a psychiatric hospital and diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic, axis I.
Medications did help some, but not really that much. My parents told me to leave and come home. Home was a hell pit, I wasn't going there. His parents were even afraid for me and told me to leave. I made enough money to support myself, but I was not leaving him. At our commitment ceremony years prior, we both vowed for better or worse. Leaving him was not an option, and never once crossed my mind.
It's not illegal to be crazy. He has a right to his thoughts. If he is not violent, or homicidal, or suicidal, and is able to care for himself and meet his needs, no one should be able to confine him.
I never knew from day to day what I'd be coming home to. His employer got him on their own early retirement benefits. They did not want him on the property at all, even though he had never done one thing wrong. He would sometimes drive to his parents, but he was mostly just in the apartment all the time.
He intense states would last a few days, but sometimes up to a week. He would come out of them feeling exhausted, and then it would take him a day or two to get back to reality. If he felt it coming on, he would say, "I am starting to feel sick." Within a day, he would be in a another paranoid state. Fortunately for him, when he was in a state, he felt no mental pain. Between states, he was actually very high functioning and normal. His mental pain only came right before he went into a state, and for about a day after it passed. Stress was a trigger.
I stuck with him voluntarily. I have no regrets, but I paid a price for it all. For three and a half years I went with the flow. I lost a couple jobs. When applying for new jobs, I would have to tell the boss what I was going through. I would tell them I may have times when I cannot leave my home for a few days or a week. Despite this I was hired.
It's very tough to live with someone in an acute paranoid state. It played some serious mind games with me, and his suicide brought out tons of mental illness in me. I was told several years ago by a very old but good therapist (she was still practicing at age 79), that I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Stockholm Syndrome. I worked with this excellent therapist until she died shortly after her retirement at age 82. I learned about traumatic bonding and brainwashing and discovered that I wasn't as crazy as I thought. I had been feeling guilty that I thought his suicide was the best thing for him. She told me that I am not a monster for thinking that.
I am a survivor of suicide, but didn't do well in survivor of suicide support groups. While I did have so much in common with them, they couldn't understand how I could be so damaged by his suicide, and grieve and miss him so much. They couldn't understand how I could blame myself for faults and mistakes I made and how I have made peace with thinking that it was okay for him to take his own life.
There are so many triggers that put me right back in that apartment again. I allowed myself to be kidnapped by him in order to be there for him. To some extent, the delusions he held toward the end started to seem real to me as well. I'm still not right today and I don't think I ever will be. He, the apartment, and all of it is very much alive in my mind always.
I feel such guilt that I failed him. I feel such dry suicidal depression on and off due to his death, and I miss him so much. I feel sometimes like I was a fool for sticking by him like I did. It's this big, dark, ugly thing in my head. I realized it will never go away. It's part of me just like my hands and feet but it's in my mind and it's as real as my hands and feet.
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