and full of the details we avoid so carefully...

I'm feeling really lonely right now. I want someone to sleep next to right now. I don't want anything beyond that, though. Do relationships like that exist? I haven't seen my therapist for two weeks now. He's been sick. I don't know what I'm going to tell him. Just when I thought I had it all figured out--what I'd say to him, that is--more rains down on me. I'm going to need to take a list. This is what it would look like:

1. Jacob
2. Unnamed boy
3. Some missed classes...
4. Loneliness
5. Regret

I want to talk about regret because it's been on my mind. I think regret is the fallback of people with bipolar. They fuck up in mania... regret. They disappear in depression... regret. And right now, just somewhere between, I have only my past to regret--although it's a pretty heavy history.

How stable am I?

I’m not sure what to write about right now. I’m hoping that if I start babbling with my weary fingers, that the pace will liven up. I’m thinking a lot. That sounds like such a prosaic statement. “I’m thinking a lot.” It’s like when people say, “I have a lot of feelings.” What does that mean? Everyone has a lot of feelings. Are they trying to say that they have mixed feelings? Communication is so important to me, and yet I make statements like that. But it’s because I’m manic. And I have racing thoughts. But both of those things are so clinical-sounding to me. And I don’t want to talk about my disorder right now; I want to talk about what it’s doing to me. I want to talk about my Self, and not myself. I’m not sure if I’m communicating this well or not.

Things jump in and out of my mind. I can’t think about one thing for too long. I can’t focus and it sucks. But I’m cycling like never before. It’s daily. I spent the whole morning thinkingthinkingthinking and when I sat down for too long that changed as rapidly as the pictures had turned in my mind to... weariness. It hurt to move and I felt like I’d never get things done. But then I did all of it. I want to slow down, but I don’t want to stop, either. Right now I’m kind of shaky

I think I’m trying to outline where my Self is sitting, but I don’t have it figured out yet. It’s funny. The girls in my pledge class are already thinking about slating. They think I should be president. Do I really look like I have my shit together? I guess I do in a way. I get good grades. I am super involved, and I do a good job in those organizations. I guess I’m the Ideas and Issues chairperson on Union Board now. But I guess I have to convince myself of that. I’d be just as successful if I didn’t stress out so much. It’s not that I have so much to do. It’s that I am scared that I won’t do it well. <-- That was an epiphany.

Those of you who read my blog probably have mixed thoughts (or just plain realistic ideas) of the kind of person I am. I’ve defined my beliefs (or lack thereof) for the first time. I am beginning to love my body. I’m learning that who I am is okay, and it’s not my fault if someone doesn’t like me. It isn’t a failing. I'm finding joy in my studies. I'm finding joy in being informed. I get all of that when I’m doing well. But I’m not always doing well. Sometimes I’m going to self harm, and sometimes I’m going to make mistakes that hurt me in different ways. I don’t always have my shit together. But even when I don’t, no one really knows it. I don’t let people see me cry. But you all have in some way or another. I like to think I’ve been pretty honest with you. I’m making mistakes, but I’m still going. And you're here to witness it.

Lord I'm 500 miles from my home.

I'm really sad today. I'm just sad in general right now. I'm thinking about a lot of things--dwelling really. I think I'm getting depressed again. I want to fight it, but I'm getting to that place where fighting it hurts more than living it. All I can do is keep going and keep on top of the things that need done. I'm kind of happy I have Chi Omega right now, because I have a reason to wake up and actually shower and take care of myself. Through recruitment we need to represent Chi Omega well. All I want to do is sleep.

So, apparently I wasn't a rebound. But the fact of the matter is I was too much for him. Right now he needs someone that doesn't need to be taken care of because he needs to take care of himself... whatever. It made me think, though: am I just too messed up for a relationship? I've already cut myself off from boys for a while now. I know how bad they are for me, and I know I was looking, which is never good. Love should come to me, I think. Today James said, "My grandma used to say that we live to find love, we don't love to find life. I think that's what you need." He's so right. And that resonated with me after a little time in the car gave me time to process that. I was looking. But I couldn't help but wonder if I am just too much for someone else to take care of. Am I so difficult that I'm one of those project relationships--will people take me on to try to fix me? Because I know how poorly those turn out. So, after that thought, the first thing I considered was just waiting. Maybe in time I'll have my life better together and I'll be good for someone. But then that disquieting word--maybe--slapped me in the face. What if I'm never better than I am right now? What if my whole life will be this roller coaster of ups and downs? What if when I need medication adjustments I become too much to take? What if I always struggle with self harm? What if I spend my whole life falling in love with people who are scared of me?

I thought of all these things as I was driving away from camp with NPR playing quietly in the background, only to make me feel less alone. I've never known someone with bipolar that had a positive, healthy romantic relationship. Bipolar people are great for some things. They are writers and actors. They're movers and shakers... but they never seem to have love. And that thought scares me. I'm working on being okay alone, which is hard, but I can't help but try to look to the future and hope that I find someone. I can't help but hope that I'll have that camp wedding I always dream of, and that I'll have babies that don't have to have bipolar disorder. I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone right now.

He wanted me back Friday, after he dumped me Thursday. He told me that he missed me, Madeline Webster, Queen of the Gollywhops. He said I made him believe in love again. He said he'd made a terrible mistake, and he couldn't believe he'd let me go. But Wednesday night... he was with someone else. So I knew those feelings had to have a parallel conflict he didn't want me to see. So, against the calls of my heart, I said no. I said no even though he wanted me to believe that he wanted me. And today, Labor Day, four days later, he again doesn't want me. I see it was a wise decision to hold strong. Because no matter how much he "loves me," he doesn't love me enough to withstand my bipolar disorder. And maybe it's just the place he is in his life--I can accept that. But when love is real, none of that matters. When love is real, you can't imagine your life without someone. When love is real, you don't even consider loving someone else. When love is real, you're willing to take anything thrown your way: distance, stress, mental illness...

So, he dumped me Thursday. I'd planned on meeting his family this weekend, and so I hadn't signed up to work at Waycross for Family Camp. But when it happened, I knew I needed camp. I knew that I needed support, distraction, exercise, and music. So I emailed Eric, and he let me work, but I didn't get paid. I spent a total of $65 dollars in gas to get there and back and make my runs in Brown County. But I didn't even care. I was just so happy to be there. It was so good for me. The thought of Jacob still hurt a lot, but I managed to make it through the weekend with growth and a greater sense of peace. I think it'll take a while to heal now. I'm still very hateful towards him.

I'm maddest because he was the one that wanted to look so far ahead. Somehow that assured me, because he was willing to believe in long term when Drew wouldn't even commit to now. We seemed so good for each other. He promised to love me despite everything I was afraid he'd leave me for; everything I'm still afraid I'll be left for. And after rushing so quickly into things, he dumped me so quickly. I'm mad because even after he played on my emotions trying to get me back, he managed to change his mind so quickly again. I can exist as a fleeting thing. He can want me and not want me three times in the course of a weekend. I was mad because I felt deceived. But I have to catch myself when I'm mad at him for not wanting me. That really isn't fair. In that instance I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at my fear that no one will look far enough past my crazy to love me. Because honestly, at this point I'm not grieving him.

If he doesn't want me, he doesn't. And I have almost entirely retrained my brain to not want him anymore too. I can't even imagine myself ever being desperate enough to make that mistake. But I am grieving the hope I've lost. I think when I was looking, like I'd said before, I was looking for assurance that I was lovable despite my mood swings, and my scars, and my depression... and I thought I'd found that in Jacob. But I was wrong. And that's why it hurt so much. Because the very thing I was looking for in love, was the very reason I lost it.

I'm getting sick. My throat is sore, my head hurts... I'm just miserable really. I'm disgusting and I need a shower. I miss camp. But here I am, back at school, fretting about this homework I need to scan and email, and looking at the mess in my room fearing that I don't have the will to pick it up. It's going to take everything I have to shower and get to the library. I'm listening to Peter Paul & Mary, which is practically my camp soundtrack. 500 Miles just played. And I think it's true. I have no idea how many miles camp is from me right now, but it's too many. And not just camp, but those people who make camp what it is. They're my home too. And it's all so far away that it physically hurts. I feel it in my bones that there is where I belong. And soon I'll return to clear trails, or fix bikes, or work on the new archery field... and I'll find peace again. And maybe someday I'll learn to bring that peace home.

Addiction, Anger, and Hope.

when addiction is involved

I really try to blog about twice a week, just because it's good for me, and I hate the thought of a visitor coming by to find at the top of the page that post which they read last. It's always so disappointing for me when the same happens on the blogs I follow. If I'm interested enough to go there, then I'm excited to read what they have to say! But I've been slipping lately.

I plan on writing a post about Books-A-Million and their Tea Party affiliation, but life has gotten in the way. It will come. I kept telling myself that would be my next post, and therefore wouldn't allow myself to write what I was feeling. I kept stalling. But no more. I'll go back to that in time, but for now, I have more pressing issues at hand. Following: the issues I take with my brother-in-law and my brother.

My brother-in-law has screwed up. Again. I love my sister, and I love her children, so I've been as kind as my patience allowed. But I'm reaching my breaking point. Patience with children is a skill I've worked very hard to develop within myself. Kindness to your partner is vital. And when you have dependents, it's important to take care of yourself. If you have a problem, then fix it. I have little tolerance for denial. Gambling away $2,000 in one night is not something to be taken lightly--good thing he's not my husband. Those are the things on my mind. Regardless of his douchebaggery towards me this semester. Which I'm not over, by the way. Even with the apology I never got, I'd take a while to move past that. Which is not a decision. Those are my feelings. Anyway. Regardless of that incident, I'm angry. I'm angry for my sister whom I love dearly. I'm angry for her life right now. When it rains, it pours. And she feels so strongly. That's part of what makes her such a good person--she can empathize. But it can break her. Carrying the weight of another can hurt so, so much. And now this? That was simply selfish on his part. I am done with him until he's gotten help and made the proper apologies to his family. Line=drawn.

Ian is hurting. I tend to distance myself from friends and family when it gets hard, because I don't want to be holding that hand when they slip... when they stop passing their windows. It scares me. And so I'd managed to "forget" about him. I'm not sure if intentional lack of consideration really counts as "forgetting" someone. I just stopped thinking about him. I refused to worry. What would come, would come. It is what it is.

But you can't really do that. No one can. I'm an expert and I couldn't do it for long. I'm going to take this part directly from my journal, because I don't think it's beneficial to me to write it all again.

We're out looking for him. On our way to Paris now. I brought Longbottom along, like a child, for some sort of security and comfort. I want something to hold if we don't bring him home. As a constant reminder of why I'm in this car, his socks and shoes are beside me. A cigarette is on the floor. Is he in Paris with no shoes? No one's talking much. Every time he disappeared before--every time he hurt himself--we talked about it. But there is a weighted silence in our throats. We're afraid to speak because someone may say that lifeless word: dead. He was alone this time. And somehow possibilities feel more possible when they're said aloud. 

*

A call from Paris. And it's Molly. Guilt in her tone. She did this. And so did Bonnie, and Jay, and Lindy... and he did it. He did it to himself. He did it to everyone. Barefoot. Broke. Hungover. Lost. No phone. No car. No... hope? But Mom: that's her word. That's her world. And I cannot deny her that. But I've denied it of myself.

*

We found him, bleary-eyed and sad in his trailer. And I was in some place between angry and relieved which is an uncomfortable mix of emotions. I kind of wanted to hug and hit him at the same time. I do love him. And I can't forget about him. And I just want happiness for him, and I know how foreign a feeling that is at the millionth dip; down, down. But he'll have it if he thinks he will. Happiness is a choice--it is not a circumstance. I kind of want to beat it into his head--like a physical understanding of what it feels like to love your life. I thought he was gone. He wasn't. We've another chance to fix it. And since I've stopped asking God to care, I'm going to pick up the slack. I will hold his demons in my capable heart, and I will defeat them. Kayla will defeat them. Mom will defeat them. Jim will defeat them. And Grandma will, too, even if she's a little hesitant. Happiness is a choice. But so is hope. I denied it of myself, and that hopelessness was unwarranted. I cannot do that again, because disappointment hurts only the blind while hopelessness is parallel to apathy. I'll keep my eyes wide open until we smash this mother fucker. Addiction be damned. I've taken the hope from you.

Addiction: It sucks
Anger: I've got it. And I'm kind of airing Darren's dirty laundry. But telling the truth should never bring shame. And so I have none.
Hope: Hear my message. Feel it. Because that was for me--I wrote it with no intentions of sharing it. But Mom's already made our story known, I've simply written subjectively. I brought emotion to what was information. This is for you now. It was mine, and I've made it yours, because so many of you have heartache. All of you do. No one lives without acquiring some demons. And I want you to know what it means to hope for something better. Because it's our job to make this place better. Have hope. Please have hope.

Slow down, you move too fast. You've got to make the mornin' last; on medication

Word Vomit

I'm dragging you on my bipolar roller coaster. Updownupdownfasterfasterfaster.

It's amazing to me how often I rush around, panicking without reason. I do wonder if I have anxiety. It's a co-morbid disorder, right? But quite frankly? I think bipolar and depression meds are plenty. I don't want to take any more. It's wearing on me--the drymouth, the nausea, the SEIZURES! (okay, there was only one, but still). I suppose that's better than being crazy.

Today I found some old, unhealthy comforts when I deep-cleaned my room. I just threw them away. I didn't even want them. I swear that's the only time that's ever happened to me. So I know the meds are working. I know it. But it doesn't make it any easier to put up with the side effects.

I peeked at *Tbird's Train a little bit ago, just to visit. I don't want to forget who I was. And I read some pretty sick stuff. And it shows me the power of secrets. Secrets are bad news, really. It's kind of like the Road Runner is this perfect bitch that I'm just trying to be. He's always ahead of me, and then here comes Wylie Coyote. He thinks he can catch up, and sooner or later, the ground runs out, and he falls      falls           falls... and if I'm on my medicine I can really slow down. I don't have to chase after that Road Runner. I am that Road Runner and I'm not even trying. Sometimes it's a let down that the Road Runner isn't as perfect as I thought. But it's still better than trying to keep up with myself.

I don't think I've ever had as hard of a semester in my life. First Ian. Then bipolar. Then IAN. And I think I need it adjusted now, because I'm going a little crazy. But it's hard to tell when my craziness is just normal, hormonal, teenage girl stuff, when it's a very natural reaction to the stresses at home, or when it's really my disorder pushing through my medication; becoming too much for it to hold back anymore. Like a gate... never mind. I'm done with the analogies. I'm infamously horrible at them.

I don't want to adjust anything until I know for sure. But how will I ever know? I'm worried about Ian. I really am. I love him so much. I don't know where he is. I don't know what kind of choices he's making (I'm assuming shitty ones). And he is not ready for any baby. I don't really care if that gets out at this point. Molly has my brother, and she's letting him kill himself. SHE'S PREGNANT. Not enough people read this for it to get out anyway. But still. That one spiteful action makes me feel a little better. In a week I'll shake my head at this week me, but right now I am really frustrated.

I've felt so guilty this whole time. I've turned him away from home twice. And both times it hurt like hell. Because I just want him home. I want him back here and I want him to be okay. I know it doesn't work like that. But he's so good. He's smart. He's a really good gift-giver. He's a hard worker. He's so much better than this cliche'. All I know is I miss him and rock bottom is nowhere in sight. I wish he knew how much I loved him and how much it hurt to lock the door in his face...




Traditional Word Vomit Wrap-Up:

1) I need to slow down. I need to be in the moment. I need to breathe and let everything else fall into place.

2) Despite the struggles with my side effects, my medicine is working. However adjustments may need to be made: Added anxiety medication and less Wellbutrin. But I'm worried about adjusting too quickly, because this may just be an emotional time and not an episode.

3) I'm really, really worried about Ian. I miss him and I'm scared of losing him. And I'm scared for his unborn child. Who's going to raise it? Kelly again? Then she deserves to know. This is why is why I'm pro-choice. This kid doesn't have a chance.

On family, broken hearts, and conflict--both internal and not

The sad stories aren't necessary to talk about the themes which they support. My family is tumultuous right now. I've always lived in a kind of bubble, free from the horrors my siblings had faced, and the bull that still occurred. I was left a little scarred by the near tangible absences in my childhood and the abuses I experienced--being a sensitive kid. But I never felt the pain of a neglectful mother. My mother loved me very much. And for all the craziness that happened around me, she was so strong. And then Jim came, and his love permeated my wall of hesitancy and guilt--Dad issues. I've never been much good with transitions. But through every transition, my mom and step-(now adoptive)dad were there for me. Mama and Papa. Through my bipolar messes, they helped me pick up the pieces--never judging or condemning me. It was always about the next step. My parents aren't the type to dwell on the past. The point of that really long paragraph: Although my family is a little jacked up, my immediate family protected me from much of the drama.

But I'm a grown up now.

My brother needed his family. I'd heard of his struggles in Texas, but there was a strong disconnect. I didn't know him. My biggest fear when he came home, was that I would love him--I would become accompanied and comfortable with him in my life, and then I'd watch him fall apart. There's nothing harder, really. Watching someone you love fall apart. And although that was a thought it my mind, I still wasn't in touch with what that meant to me. But then I watched him fall. He slipped first. And I wanted to be done. I wanted to back out completely, because I knew what came next... and it would be hard. But when I really had to, I tried to step up. I've listened to calls that I'm thankful I didn't have to make. I've heard my sister cry. I've seen my mother question herself, which has been hard. She always seems so confident and sure. I've seen Jim play a very new role. No one put a deadbolt on the door for me. My bipolar shit pales in comparison.

But we're dealing with an addict. Addiction is a deadly, deadly disease. It maims judgment, causes you to say things you don't mean, and it teaches you to lie to yourself and those you love. And here's the thing: I still have it easiest. I'm not the one making those hard calls. I'm not the one installing locks in the doors and rewriting the rules of my home. I'm not the one who has been berated on the phone by a crazed and false version of the brother whom I love. So I've tried to be strong. I've tried to speak kindly to my mama, who is conflicted and suffering while her clinical mind beats down the mother within her. I've tried to thank my papa again and again. I've tried to listen to my sister. Because there is nothing to say. We're all well aware of addiction and are well-acquainted with the mental health community. We know what's real. We know what to expect and what has to be done. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. Kayla feels so strongly. She feels everything on a greater scale than I do. The pain of others so greatly affects her.

And I've allowed myself to be woken up in the night. And I've talked my grandma down from many an anxious state. And I've faced locking him out in the rain or letting him back in. I've ignored him when he knocked on my window when he came home after his clearly-set curfew. I've handled situations my grandmother is too weak to face. And all the while I've suffered in my own way. But it's my responsibility, I think. Because everyone else is dealing with a very different part of his addiction. They utilize the powers they have, and I'm discovering the ones I have. And it's sad, but it's comforting in a way. I'm finding myself in this. It's such a cliche, but I'm building character. I'm looking for my boundaries--for what will drive me over the edge--and I haven't found it yet. I'm a lot stronger than I ever knew.

Today I picked up a homeless man. I was driving Kyle to school, and I probably wouldn't have done it alone. But I decided if I was strong enough to watch my brother die, then I was strong enough to give a guy a ride and buy him a cup of coffee from Burger King. And I'm learning that the career I've been considering is so much better suited for me than I had even known. Mental health is where I belong. I think all of this would have pushed me one way or the other.

But I love my brother so, so much. And I don't know where he is. And I don't know what he's doing. And I don't know if he'll ever come home. But I do want to know that he's okay. But I can't. I can only hope. And Kayla said it best: Now hearts are breaking. And the only way to build up a muscle that has been injured is the let it rest, and then use it again. It needs to practice. I need to love people I've never met, and to care about the people on whom I've wished ill. I need to feel compassion. I need to build my heart up again, because otherwise it's going to sit there and it's going to rot. It will become bitter and will stink with a putrid hatefulness that will permeate my whole body... my face. :/ And I just can't let that happen. Because I'm responsible for making sure that doesn't happen to anyone else. While they're handling addiction, I'm going to play lifeguard. I don't want anyone to slip under. I can't lose anyone else.