It Happened To Me

After two weeks in a coma, I was transferred from the hospital to a nursing home filled mostly with seniors.

My roommate was dying and in pain. My heart went out to her. Thankfully she blessed with a loving and dutiful daughter. Her daughter was very kind to me as well.

Almost all the staff was kind and caring. Until towards the end of my stay. I was vomiting bile for two weeks. I ate nothing. It was nearly impossible to keep medication down. I feasted on water and ice chips.

My roommate’s daughter was tired of her mother’s suffering and arranged the escape to a hospital. Once she was gone, my condition got worse and I had a forgetful nurse.

I had to use the toilet. My nurse had to help me. She wiped me as if I was cardboard. Then put me back into bed. The worse comes 10 minutes later.

I had to go again. After ringing for her she yelled at me! She said she was on her break. Then shouted at me, what’s wrong with you? I said I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. She said, me neither.

After putting me in bed (roughly) I cried quietly. I assessed the situation. I can’t walk, eat, wipe myself and a nurse just told me off. I called my husband and begged to be taken out of this place.

It took an eternity (from my point of view) to be sprung. I went to a great hospital. I was treated with dignity, compassion and professionalism for three days.

Then I went home. A careless psychiatrist started this rollercoaster by not monitoring my lithium levels. I always did as I was told. I’m 46 years old and I was defenseless.
Thank God I can move now.

Get Up

My life before meeting my husband was peppered with hate. That kind of hatred could only be managed with drinking, sex, inner screams and hidden wounds. Who’s to blame?  At the top of the list was my mother’s boyfriend.

Granted, he didn’t make me bipolar. He made my symptoms far more pronounced by screwing with my head. He was a psychologist who liked breaking into bathrooms.

My mother’s relationship with him ended over 30 years ago. He’s been dead and gone for a while now. But something remains. He wasn’t just a pervert. He was father to five human beings.

Today I’m Facebook friends with three of them. His son looks just like him and carries his name. It isn’t hard to look or talk to him because my quasi-stepbrother is not his father. All of his children belong to themselves and that makes it easy for me to see them and not their father.

I have no hate in me. I choose to find pride in my great and minor victories. I have no cuts on my thighs. I have no booze or cigarettes in my life. My husband and I share guilt-free marital pleasures. Lastly, I can look at my pain without succumbing to it.

Like my quasi-siblings, I belong to myself. I refuse to relinquish myself to anyone. I trust that I will choose what is right for me. And if I fall, I’ll just quickly get up.

Aftermath

July 27th was my birthday and no, I will not say my age. I’m middle-aged and that’s all I’ll divulge. Am I vain? Yes. Absolutely.

I had a lovely birthday complete with gifts, well wishes, yummy food and affection. I was taken care of by all who love me.

The aftermath is always strange and fuzzy. I’m in an awkward state for a few days. Then I do my life assessment – accomplishments and failures. This is dangerous, but I do it anyway.

When will it all end? Bipolar is forever. Hysterectomy – am I really a woman? Knee replacement surgery is forthcoming. Until then pain and fear is a staple in every step I take.

On the flip side, I have gone on amazing trips with my lovely husband. I can speak Spanish. I have two blogs. And I have a lot of good people who love me.

Why do I do this to myself? Maybe I want to lob my own stones at my own house. I’ve been doing this all my life. Judging myself is the place where I hide.

I don’t hide all the time, but birthdays are a trigger. I think reaching physical and mental balance is like scaling Mt. Everest. Sadly, I don’t want a Sherpa.

 

No Real Solution … Maybe

Regardless of the fact that I take my Lithium, Seroquel, Zoloft and Lamectal every night the world can trump my psychiatric due diligence.  I use to think my pills could save me from everything.

The world showed me how the psychotically violent either went off their meds or was never on them to begin with. The message was take your meds and you’ll be just fine. Damn, I’m stupid.

So when human atrocities and cruelty happen across the globe and right here at home it can be devastating for me.The panic feeling wells up inside me. My muscles ache as if I had the flu. Then my mind decides to run a marathon without shoes.

Perhaps I should just turn off my TV, PC and Kindle. Even better I can just leave my husband, family and friends to reside in a lovely cave. Uh, no. I’ve gone too far. So what should I do?

I bet most readers of this post think I should just go to therapy. My psychiatrist prefers that I go but it’s not a priority for me. For one thing I’ve been therapist shopping and it isn’t easy. Chemistry has to be there.

Then I considered group therapy. I’ve been in 3 behavioral programs where I bonded with everyone. It’s nice to be in a group where everyone gets it . Downside is that creates an us versus them mentality. Transference rears its ugly head. Exits from the group feel like death.

My final options are to cry, blog and talk to my loved ones. I had these catastrophic feelings for most of my life. I remember how bad it got, but I have my trusty husband and Ativan now. 

 

 

I’m Dead Serious

Yes. It’s that time again. Your beloved bipolar is in a list making mood. The topic? It’s incredibly contrived but my lithium has yet to kick in. What all, most, more than ten women want.

1. To make more money than men – no need to explain.

2. The perfect bra – this is such a big deal. Bras have stabbed, chafed and bound helpless breasts for centuries. They should be pretty, soft and supportive,

3. A world where every man is circumcised – A short circumcised penis trumps a huge uncircumcised penis every day of the week. Just being honest.

4. A way to make men get pregnant – After 9 months they are then qualified to pass laws and opinions on reproductive rights.

6. To own a pair of Manolo Blahniks (shoes) – even if you can’t wear them you can place it in a crystal case and show it to your friends.

7. No matter how conservative a woman can be she still wants at least one gay friend and/or hairdresser. You can’t fight it. It’s nature. Gays complete you – thanks Jerry McGuire.

8. The complete eradication of yeast infections, UTIs and cramps – If we get this the world gets a kickass nirvana.

9. A real man with a job, his own place and never borrows money from anyone.

10. Honesty – for some reason men and women have a hard time with this. Maybe it’s because vulnerability is involved. I get it. Its tough. Still, it is what women want.

Thank You

For those of you who don’t know about me I have two major medical issues. I have bilateral arthritic knees and I’m bipolar.

These ‘issues’ are with me 24/7 and have become characters in my life. My left knee is the one that causes me to grimace on a regular basis.  My bipolar disorder makes me question my thoughts, beliefs and actions. Yes, I’m on my meds.

Today, we had friends over to our home. I was happy to see them. Their presence made me forget about all my pains. They actually evicted my pains and doubts.

This miracle has happened to me before. It’s funny how you can forget the cures available in your life. My mind and body respond well to humor, spontaneity, tenderness and warmth. My family and friends deliver it effortlessly.

I’m really grateful for every hug, kiss and smile I receive and give back. I know that I could not live without hope and support from my loved ones.  They make me want to be well in every sense of the word.

My will often times falters. When it does, I hold onto the love of my friends and family. They need me in theirs lives and I need them in mine.

It’s very simple. Love is a constant stream flowing all around us. We were never meant to be stagnant. We always need to move, nourish and give back in some way.

It’s easy to take love for granted so don’t. Tell your spouse, mother and wacky friend how much they mean to you and why. They need and deserve it as much as you do.  To all that love me, I feel the same way. Thank you for everything.

 

In My Head

I’m a little scatter brain today or manic or myself! Argh! I can’t decide. You guys figure it out and let me know.

What did the lady electrician say to her date? Looks like you got a short! 

What’s the easiest way a girl can end a relationship? Tell the guy you want to get pregnant.

How does one make brownies? With pot and law enforcement’s blessing, of course!

When is it okay for a guy to live in his parents’ house? When his parents live in another house.

How do you get terrorists to surrender? Bombard them with rotting pig parts and Pussy Riot music!

How do you get thugs to stop fighting? Amplify the sound of nails on a chalkboard through the neighborhood.

What’s the worst thing a child can say to a parent?  “I’ll write an e-book.”

It was funny in my head. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 

 

 

 

Crazy About My Friends

I think it’s fair to say that most people are blessed with great friends. I know I am. And how do these buddies, gal pals and partners in crime come into our lives? So-and-so knows and introduces you to the funniest, coolest and sweetest person you’d ever want to meet.

And then you take that euphoric dip into the friendship pool. And it’s awesome! Intent is clear. We have got to get together again soon! Wasn’t she/he super nice? So on and so forth…

Now speaking as a proud member of the bipolar club, that euphoric dip is more like a belly flop from the space station.  Then the get together goes through the over analysis of a Lithium, Zoloft, Lamectal and Seroquel fueled brain.

I want to see them. Do they want to see me? Should it be at my place? My place looks like shit on a shingle. Damn it! My knee hurts like crazy. And the tangent goes on and on. This episode feels like its going to ride me straight to my coffin.

That said, my friends are great and I want to see them. And if I have to get a little (or a lot) manic, so be it.  Rumor has it that they want to see me too. Can’t imagine why. My house needs a turbo once-over. Maybe they just want be around me.

My Blog, Rants And Bipolar Stuff

It amazes me how much guilt I attach to writing about my feelings, past (shameful or not) and incidentals. By writing, I specifically mean this blog. Then I think about the About Me disclosure I posted before writing one word.

I am a 44 year-old wife living with bipolar disorder. My husband and I have no kids and live in Los Angeles California. I consider this blog to be an experiment. How far can I go about the truth? How far can any of us. I might disturb, shock and insult someone or possibly even everyone.  This is the truth from a mentally ill, bright and quasi-brave Latina.

All that said, tonight’s question for Monica is complex: What do miss about myself? The answer to that is multilayered, but I’ll try to summarize. Is that even possible? A bipolar Latina summarizing? I’ll try to think Gringa.

I miss the insanely altered sense of arousal within myself (partner was not required). It was the same as being high, but it produced crazed feelings of possession. In short, I wasn’t going to do well if I was dumped or ignored.

I miss living productively. I mean really productively. I was a rock star employee. A whirling dervish at home. And a super friend prepared to save anyone I remotely liked … until I crashed.

I miss my willingness to be loud, pushy and overbearing. Today, I’m a mouse at times. I don’t cuss the way I use to and it’s probably best, but I miss the up yours me.

I use to want children a lot. Now I’m so glad I don’t have them. I would make a lousy mother. A mother has to be organized, even tempered, forever prepared for anything, aware of the world and herself. I know my limits.

I have the deepest respect for all parents who master the aforementioned traits. The best I can hope to be is a good aunt and that’s not bad. Did I rant? Probably.

Really Know Me

The latest bee in my proverbial bonnet is prompted by someone I love. I am currently on a diet or altered eating lifestyle. I’m looking to lose enough weight to have my knee replacement surgery. I refuse to have barbaric bypass surgery or try some fad diet plan.

Basically, I’m counting calories and eliminating junk food.  My new fixation is my weigh-in every Saturday. Sometimes it drops less than a pound, but it has yet to increase.

When it drops less than a pound, I feel like I gained fifty pounds. So naturally, I have a Facebook pity party. I get lots of encouragement and praise. I also get advice.

Keep in mind that I am bipolar and can barely walk. The advice I got was to find an activity that keeps me active mentally and physically. This statement made me feel like a loser. I know she loves me and means well, but she doesn’t really know me.

I honestly thought she did knew me. Perhaps it’s my fault that she didn’t. I thought everyone knew. My real fear, at this point, is talking about it to her. I have been bombarded with alleged ‘ready-made’ problem solvers all my life. Some things are just not that easy.

Those that truly get it are found in group therapy sessions. Basically, we’re all trying to avoid a trip to the ER, racing thoughts, crippling panic attacks, going off the meds and suicide. Stability is the goal, not a cure.

I am afraid of sharing all of this with my friends and family. Most know my condition, but perhaps passively. I have been living with this demon all my life. It has aided and injured me. Now my knee wants to join the disabled list. I’m hanging on as best I can!