Lies, of course

Posted: August 3, 2012 in Bipolar
Tags: ,

I’ve had lapses in memory due to my manic depression and psychotropic drugs in the last 4 years.  And lets not forget, excessive drinking and pot smoking as a teenager.  The therapist and psychiatrist call it self-medicating.

Drug abuse, alcohol abuse, self-injury, too many boyfriends, too much sleeping, too much eating … all fall under that term, self-medicating.

It’s funny how all those things that you think you love can be summed up in two little words. And the words make you feel pretty dumb for being so arrogant.  It’s like trying to pretend that I’m a doctor and I can treat myself.  Of course, I had a chip on my shoulder.

I figured that if I was still alive, as in with a pulse, I was doing okay.  Then, there were other concerns. Appearances meant everything.  Should my cover be blown, my only refuge was death, cutting or running away.

Lying, was also a favorite addiction/coping mechanism/form of self medication.  Just enough lying to make me sympathetic, loved and admired.  Yet another way to control when I was clearly out of control.

I lied to everyone, myself included.  Small lies were easy and harmless (even if I got caught).  But the big ones, blowing up in my face, were lethal.  I can feel the anxiety surging up inside me.  Yet another scary step.

As a senior in high school (this time in San Gabriel, California), I made up the cancer lie.  I told a friend that I had leukemia.  It’s awful, I know.  I guess I thought, it was a lovely disease to be dying from. I probably got that impression from something I saw on tv.

The worst part is that he told a teacher I admired.  I couldn’t tell her the truth. My teacher was inflicted with lupus. I saw first hand what a real slow death could do.  In the end, she found out the truth by the school nurse.

She confronted me 2 days before I graduated.  I wept in her arms and told her I wanted to die so badly.  She said she was going to get me help.  I avoid her for the remaining days and never went to any reunions.

This is the first time in over 20 years that I’ve had the courage to reveal the ugliest parts of me and my life, through this blog, to anyone (aside from my mother, husband and therapist).  The shame is still there. I fear that if I let it go, I will return to that dangerous way of existing.

I hope others like me can let go of their shame. Maybe some day, I’ll let go of mine.  So, in the end, I raise the question.  What is a coconut?

In relation to me, it is a severely injured girl who must  look, sound and think far beyond her station in life.  Her secrets must be kept.  She must live and die dramatically.

I am no longer a coconut, thankfully.  I am a 43-year-old married woman with good and bad days, just like everybody else. I take my meds, read, talk to my loved ones and think a lot about my life.

I will never be pregnant due to health issues.  It saddened me, initially, but now I feel good about it. I am far too crazy, selfish and free to be a mother.  Mothers, I surmised, have to be selfless, vigilant and ready for anything.  I can’t be that. Still, I admire those that can be that.

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Comments
  1. Doris says:

    Ok I am crying at this point, do i understand you…

    Like

  2. coconutspeak says:

    I’m glad you do. This blog means so much to me. I know people suffer for various reasons, but it is so important to highlight to good in each of us.

    Like

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