Category: mother

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Today was a hard day

Today was a hard day. Days similar to today have tried to break me and sometimes I think where I find my strength is keeping it all deep inside of me wrapped up tightly with all the other things I bury for the sake of others.

I often write about how being bipolar feels to me. How depression binds me. I tend to shy away from sharing the part of what it is I actually go through to heal, to survive. The experiences themselves I hide only showing the pretty words strung together in a useable quote. To protect myself, to protect other’s maybe. Not today. Today I had to start over with a re-assesment of my mental health and well-being. I have come quite far from when I started my self-care just over five years ago. Yet, I cannot seem to do more than survive. 

I walked into the office feeling the same I do most days though it’s hard to describe. I mostly go through the motions of what needs to be done to get to the next day only to repeat the cycle. Lying to my brain that tomorrow, we can breathe, we can relax, we can have a good day and maybe we can do something we want to do without criticism, without guilt, without a time limit as my time has not been my own for such a long time now. So, I walk in and sit down and BamBam the therapy dog climbs up his giant stairs onto my psychiatrist’s desk and sits right in front of my face waiting for his pets.

Isn’t he adorable? So sweet and seemingly concerned of my well being. Throughout the session I would watch this look overtake my doctor filled with sadness, concern and so much empathy for what it is I endure. I was uncomfortable, I didn’t understand why? It seems that look is gone from so many familiar faces it was unrecognizable. Conditioned that what I endure is not as bad as it feels or not as severe because I am strong, because I survive, because I am a talented actress and the best performance of my life, is my life and because I am shown that I am selfish making such an experience feel unworthy. I fought tears during the 90 minute season as if crying was painful, or not allowed but really when I start I often cannot stop. Sure sometimes I want to be held, in silence but mostly I prefer these moments are when I am alone. I feel myself betraying myself by doing such a thing in front of another human being. Every part of my being screams to stop, Stop, STOP! I do temporarily, at least until she pokes another trigger.

I have control issues. Anytime I have “let go,” the consequences have been astronomical and I carry them always. They are as much a part of me as my bones, skin and blood is. The things that break me in session, are the same things that have been slowly killing me, making me sicker physically and mentally. It is part of who I am, to feel everything so intensely or feel nothing at all. I’m not really sure if that is part of my personality at this point or just a combination of Bipolar Disorder and all the other labels slapped on my chart. The main triggers, are naturally things I am not in control of. I drift while she types, watching BamBam now in his tiny dog bed, belly up and snoring louder than something so small should be able to. The third time she mentions how difficult my situation must be due to my son’s autism, I correct her firmly. “He is not a trigger.” My love for him and his for me is unconditional. WE accept each other exactly as we are. No one else does that. Maybe that is why the bond between mother and son or father and daughter seem to be so strong. I explained and she accepted.

After adding another diagnostic issue to my chart she asks cautiously if I would be wiling to see a trauma therapist. (Meanwhile I can still see my regular therapist.) Now of course how far I’ve come seems minuscule at this point. She says something along the lines of, “I know to you, you may not think what you have experienced is trauma but it doesn’t have to be physical to be considered trauma. You show classic sign of PTSD from the trauma you have experienced (specifically these 2 instances, including the sudden seemingly random onset of your disorder almost 18-19 years ago) and you have been in survival mode ever since.” My eyes filled quickly and suddenly. So much truth is, hard. I answer her questions, telling her things I would never tell another soul (but I want to feel better, so I do.) Telling her things I have told other’s but had received no reprieve or true help besides empty words, disinterest, judgment, etc. Blah, blah, blah.

We make a plan of action, the best we can with the hand we are dealt. BamBam wakes and comes over to me to say his goodbyes. I leave physically exhausted, mentally drained. Today was a hard day.

I left to pick my son up from school and we went home. Continued with all the things I am supposed to do, have to do to survive. Did all the things I can muster the strength to do with a smile; so my son is happy, healthy and feels loved for being exactly who he is, every single part of him that makes him who he is and allowing him to exist the way he needs ands wants to. My turn isn’t a real thing. It’s a wish list my doctor has on my chart and on this list there are other things she wants for me that I won’t allow myself to dwell on, to want (when I can help it), knowing there is always a barter to be made for a fraction of what I may want and sometimes a punishment of sorts for thinking about myself. Fighting for things I should have a right to, well I do not have the energy, will power or time for such silly things.

Tomorrow I will feel a little better, until I don’t again. Back and forth. My mental illness is a neurological (and genetic) condition I did nothing to aquire and no longer can tell if I deserve. But don’t worry, in a few days I’ll gather myself and be back to the approved version I have been shown, I am allowed to be.

Today was a hard day.

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“I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.”

― Robin Williams

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The Joy of a Sleepy Child

I rock my son in my arms as if we were listening to a sweet melody. His cries bounce of the wall begging for me not to coax him into sleeping. He loathes napping and bedtime as if I were kicking his favorite little puppy. He whines, pleading that I stop trying to make him as sleepy as he actually is. I lay him down in bed with a bottle and his favorite blanket, whispering sweet words to him. He fights, arguing every step of the way as if sleep was his mortal enemy. His eyes grow heavy and in reaction his hand reach up to rub them. Will he sleep? I wonder.

I hold my son gently in my arms reminding myself that this is just one of the many gifts that come along with children. Exhausted my hair lay a disaster, high above my head. My eyes are surrounded by a dark blanket, a sign that I have been without sleep for far too many days in a row. A nap could change my entire day and the only thing standing in the way of that is the perfect bundle of joy wrapped in my arms screaming bloody murder. My socks are mismatched and I was sure the substance on my shirt was either spit up or formula but not entirely sure to which one it was.  Reluctantly, I lay him in his bed as my arms feel as if they will fall right off of my body from the length of time I held his weight in them. I tried to hold him until he fell asleep, but I was in no condition for an endurance run against this little man.  I glanced in the mirror to see my disheveled appearance knowing this wasn’t the first nor the last time, I wasn’t going to give two shits about my reflection, mocking me. I sat waiting for him to tire himself out and fall asleep into the much needed nap he deserves, I deserved. As I am just about to give up and free him as he wishes the space around me silences and I know he has finally passed out. I dance in celebration. I debate on taking my own much needed nap or one of the other million things I could do while he lay sleeping. I peer into his crib to see his sweet angelic face, at peace. I crawl into bed and close my eyes, excitedly. Minutes pass and there I lay awake. “No, no, no.” I growl at myself. After I had made a mental note of my future to do list and had dwelled sufficiently on the past twenty-nine years of my life, I begin to drift asleep. “Momma.” I hear from cage that holds my son. My eyes snap open fearfully and as his soft voice begins to babble I sigh and pull myself from my bed and approach my son. I find him siting, staring up at me with a smile that could melt the coldest of winter’s. Even his baby blues were smiling, as if to say, thank you mom. I needed that. I reach in and lift him up into my arms and he holds on to my neck before I bring him to the floor to escape and cause whatever havoc he will, on the house. His laughter fills the house as he plays with his favorite toys and though the circle’s around my eyes darkened slightly from the ordeal I throw my hands up in defeat. There’s always bedtime, I think to myself. Who needs showers?