The season of wellness

Today is December 9th, 2017.  What seems like an eternal 7 months ago, you were taken from me and the kids. Bipolar clinched it's grip on you and just like that, you were gone.

First in the hospital and then a medication induced zombie, you have been lost to us.  I told many people I lived and traveled with a cardboard cutout of you.  Physically present but emotionally absent, we would try to engage you but would be met with apathy.

Finally we found a psychiatrist who adjusted your medication and within days that cardboard cutout of you started to come alive again.  Today you are back.

Looking at you tonight I marveled that you were talking to me, listening to me, responding to me...and laughing! I stared incredulously that the man I married was back.  My mind started to wander.  I started to feel anxious.  I began to pray silently in my head,
"Please stay for awhile.  Don't leave again.  Please, please, please let him stay well and achieve stability again.  Please God, please.

"Why are you acting so weird?” he said and interrupted my train of thought.

Even if I tried to explain it, you'’ll never understand. You’ll never understand how you go away, and you'll never understand that in these moments, or these seasons of wellness, I’m so grateful and so scared at the same time that we will lose you again.

Why am i acting so weird? I don't know how to tell you  I’m so happy I could cry, and so scared this won’t last, and I’m just trying to drink in this moment of wellness and pray to God it doesn't go away again anytime soon.

Thankful, Grateful, Blessed

This Thanksgiving, 2017, I added a frame to my facebook profile picture that said "Thankful,   Grateful, Blessed.

No truer words were EVER spoken. My husband with Bipolar 1 disorder has been depressed/apathetic since his last manic/pyschotic episode last Spring.  To say I have been lonely isa an understatement.  I only remark that I have lived with a card board cutout throughout the entirety of the summer.  My fun loving, life of the party, adventurous husband was nothing but a shell throughout the entire past 5 months.

About a month ago, we went to a new psychiatrist who switched his meds.  Within a week I started to see glimmers of my husband.  A full month out and I can report I have my husband back.  My kids have their father back.  The amount of gratitude coursing through my veins can never be contained within the confines of the written word.  

This Thanksgiving, I cannot help but be grateful for anything other than having my husband back. Mental illness is a terrible disease.  It has the ability to hijack a person you love and keep them hostage, and you have NO control or say.

This Thanksgiving, the picture frame, "Thankful, Grateful, Blessed," meant more than just a nice sentiment. I truly and deeply felt that despite all the difficulties, God was still in our corner. This Thanksgiving, I truly feel thankful, grateful and blessed to live in a time when mental illness can no longer steal the person I love away from me for good. I am grateful and blessed that because of modern medicine, the man I love, the man who is the father to my children, and the man I want to navigate life with can still be here because of modern medicine.  

Happy Thanksgiving!

A reason to stay

Sometimes, is it as though time stands still.  Never a fan of birthdays, it’s ironic I can remember so many of them with you.  I have so many memories of our 20 year friendship.  If I close my eyes, I remember you standing tall and proud in our high-school demanding attention with a tie wrapped around your forehead for spirit week.  In a world where everyone, including myself, just wanted to fit in; you ensured you stood out.  Always pushing on, moving forward and finding

a reason to stay.

We had AP classes together our senior year of high-school.  I was your match when it came to English and writing, but you were my cheat sheet when it came to chemistry and science.  Because of you, high school was fun and full of laughs and adventures; although I didn’t always realize deep inside you were some days searching for

a reason to stay.

We decided to go to the same college and earn our bachelor degrees.  We drove the metropolitan train line and impressed ourselves with our newly found independence and our success at adulthood.  Boyfriends, heartbreaks, clubs and shoulders to cry on, I’m so thankful you always were there and found

a reason to stay.

From college graduates, to newlyweds, to mothers; we shared the joys life had to offer.  Faithfully taking pictures and documenting it for each other, we had moved onto the next stage of life and easily found

a reason to stay.

You had kids before me and I remember being annoyed and maybe slightly jealous of your instant enamor with all things baby and kids.  You would proudly boast and post pictures of your precious and precocious babe, living, seeing, and experiencing life again through new wonderful, true, curious, and wander lust eyes. Once I had my first born, I joined in on the fun and was ever so thankful I could share this time of life of you and that you continued to find

a reason to stay.

Dark days had always come through this 20 year timeline.  Not privy to them all, I think you at times, got better at hiding the intrusive thoughts that would threaten to hijack your mind.  However, I only became more fooled that everything was fine.  A long, two years brought changes and actions I didn’t recognize.  Though I tried to reach out I didn’t know how; and when I did, I was met with venom and backlash.  Confused, I would reach one hand out only to have two slapped back.  I didn’t want to make it worse, but I also didn’t know you were struggling to find

a reason to stay.

After taking you to the hospital and calling your sisters; my concern was met with outrage and I started to feel I was causing you more pain.  Had I known then what I know today about depression, I would have not left you alone because I thought it was what you wanted.  I would have kept annoyingly reaching out because I would have known you were losing yourself and losing sight of

reasons to stay. 

You died by suicide almost a year later. I still remember the exact chair and the exact room I was sitting in, when your sister called me.  You articulate sister, gifted in words as brilliantly as you; was wailing on the other end that you had died.    It was not a human cry.  It was the sound of grief itself manifested in human voice. 

My dear friend, my 6’3’’ Amazonian goddess of a best friend; I wish I would have known the extent of your struggle.  I had no idea you were fighting a battle every day in which you were trying to find

a reason to stay.  

Had I known then all I have learned now, things might have been different.  Save me a seat on the other side. Love you.

 

 

Love you, Love you a lot, Love you Forever

Love you.  Love you a lot.  Love you forever.

It's a phrase that just started one day in my house, and was bestowed upon my children by their father, my husband. Despite my daughter having one of the severest speech disorders (apraxia) and struggling her first 4 years of life to even repeat "I love you," the phrase had become common place and well rehearsed at bedtime.  The kids, MY kids, MY heart, enjoyed saying it to their dad and giggled in glee when he would repeat it back or complete the phrase.  I would smile at their secret dialogue.  I was never included.  This was something special between them and their dad and I was 100% totally okay and happy with it. 

I love words.  I'm a writer.  Words have always made sense, and sometimes, certain words are only saved for someone special.  Words MEAN something and I knew these words symbolized a unique and special bond between my children and their father.

That is, until Depression hit.  Depression.  Such an unwelcome, unwanted, uncontrollable cloud that comes to visit.  Depression is not welcome by anyone, including the one it decides to reside in.  Depression chose my husband as its home this past year.  My husband reminded me the other day no one would "choose this," meaning no one would ever invite depression in.

My husband's eyes went blank and his body merely a shell.  My kids, not understanding depression tried for a couple weeks in vain.  On auto-pilot my husband would say "I love you" and they would eagerly respond,
"Love you a lot" and wait with baited breath for him to finish and say, "love you forever," but Depression stole their dad away. Depression didn't know the secret words.  Those words were lost in a foggy cloud as he would stare right through them or play games on his phone.

Soon after the words were forgotten.  I love you was ever barely spoken.  Hugs stopped being given.  Have you ever hugged a shell?  There isn't much satisfaction or connection.  At times, you may press it to your ears and imagine words and sounds, but in the end; you are left with a hard case and only your imagination.

We found a new doctor for my husband.  He changed the meds.  I waited for two weeks determined not to get my hopes up.  I couldn't handle them being crushed again.  I started to hear something peculiar.  I started to hear a phrase I just slightly remembered.

I love you.  I love you a lot.  I love you forever.

I think my mind dismissed it at first.  I can't hear that.  It's too painful.  I must be hoping so hard to have him back I am imagining my kids saying it again.  They had long forgotten it. 
But then, again.

I love you.  I love you a lot.  I love you forever.

There was this moment, as sure as the moment when I knew I had lost him......I realized I had found him again.  He had found a way to send depression packing and the sweetest words I think I have ever and will ever heard, came from the smiles of my children as they told him goodnight.

I love you.  I love you a lot.  I love you forever.

Goodbye depression. Oh, and I hope that door hits you on the way out.

Two's company, three is lonely: Go away bipolar depression

Depression is not something we have usually dealt with, my husband and I.  Manic bipolar I had all figured out.  This though, is new.

I am lonely.  I am so lonely at times.  He is a shell.  Depression for him is not sadness. 
It is indifference. 
It is apathy. 
It is....

Despondent.

I need to learn more about depression, but I'm not there yet.  Life is busy.  After working all day, the frustration I feel coming home to a house that's destroyed, dishes in the sink, and depression lying on the couch makes every ounce of patience and compassion in me boil over.

Sometimes it feels like I'm a single mom with three kids, one of which is depression. To say it's overwhelming is an understatement.  To say I feel lonely grossly misidentifies the feelings inside of me.  I once heard a song that said the opposite of love is not hate, it's apathy. 

Apathy is absolutely crushing.  Hate can make you cry, but apathy leaves you feeling empty too. 

I remember when my husband was first diagnosed, I read all this advice to not "jump on the bipolar train."  To set boundaries and make sure I don't get sucked into the constant roller coaster of mania and then depression and then back up to mania again.

I'm here to tell you that's impossible.

Boundaries can ensure you don't physically sit down on the roller coaster, but they very rarely work to inhibit all the emotions that come with loving someone who is manic or depressed.

When my husband is manic, my already anxious spirit is in overdrive and I experience panic attacks, heart palpitations, adrenaline rushes from panic at night, and a racing heart beat.

When my husband is depressed, as he is now, I experience intense loneliness.  No one asks me about my day anymore, and worse yet, no one seems to care.  I live in a house with another adult, but the only sounds are kids playing, fighting, or crying.  I crave adult conversation.  When I reach out and ask a question, it's met with a gesture of indifference for depression has no desire to talk.

Sometimes my husband comes out for a brief visit.  My hopes get as high and come as fast as a rocket shooting to space. Depression always has the last laugh though and the rocket explodes mid flight and I'm the only one left picking up the pieces.

Please, please, please go away depression.

Two is company and three is just....lonely.

The ransom I found after bipolar depression kidnapped my husband.

It's Fall of 2017 in Colorado.  The state has been under a fog for about a week or more due to smoke from nearby wildfires.  It's been hazy.  The sun is always a weird color and we can't see the mountains like usual.

Today, my husband with bipolar 1 disorder finally had an appointment with a private psychiatrist (hard to find), who is taking new patients (harder to find), works 5 days a week (impossible to find), and actually seems to look at psychiatry as more than a paycheck (I didn't think this existed).

I went with my husband to this appointment.  In the 11 years of his bipolar dx, I have never once been to an outside appointment.  I've had plenty with the inpatient staff, but no, this was a first.

My kids' normally fun, boisterous, larger than life dad has been kidnapped by bipolar depression. As much as I have good boundaries, and as much as I keep myself healthy and make sure not to jump on the bipolar roller coaster, my heart has been broken.  I miss my husband.  I miss my kids' real dad.  I miss my partner.  I miss my friend.  I miss the guy who quite literally might be the funnest person on the planet.

Bipolar has truly kidnapped him.

I have spent months trying to figure out the ransom. Date nights? Jet skiing?  Camping? Sleeping all weekend?  Break from the kids?  Break from the family? Break from life?  Vacation?

The kidnapper rejected all the offers.

At times, I thought I had enticed the kidnapper, even just a little; but in the end the price was too high, and worse yet, I didn't know the terms.

Who knew then, that today, the ransom would come in the form of a middle aged man, with brown leather suede shoes, and big white smile, salt and pepper hair, and a thoughtful demeanor.  My instincts instantly knew he was the ransom.  He was the key that would unlock depression's grip on my husband. 

He.....is a psychiatrist.

Were you expecting something fancier?  We have a new medication plan, a new follow up plan, a plan that involves teamwork, and a hope that it won't fail this time.  We have someone who is available, consistent, and seemed genuinely interested in running our kidnapper off for good.

Tonight after I picked up my kids, my son looked to the sky.  Our usually smoky, hazy sky was clear tonight for once; and my five year old son said, "Look mommy!  The sunset!"

Tears welled into my eyes as I smiled and said, "Yes.  There it is again Jace.  The sunset, and tomorrow will be indeed, a new day. 

To the Spouse of Someone Just Diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.

Hello.  You don't know me, but I know you.  I see myself in you, all those years ago now when I cried heavy tears and always seemed to be lost, confused, and feeling crazy.

I know the intense love you feel from and for your partner.  It's a love that is so deep it cannot possibly be described but only felt.  It is all encompassing and it is true, blue, glorious, love.  It is a crazy, passionate, euphoric, and sometimes painful to the depths of despair kind of love.  It is what is written and sang about it.  In its glory, it is the very BEST of what life has to offer and you feel lucky that you have found it.

I know your confusion then when it turns.  A switch and everything turns dark. Delusions, disassociation, and anger are suddenly thrust at you. It is incredibly confusing.  Where did your lover go? Do they not remember the affection they felt only what seems like yesterday?  Do they not remember how they cried big tears watching a movie with you because they felt love for you too that deeply?  Why are you now the source of their anger when what seems like just minutes ago you were their muse?  Why now are they so unpredictable when they have been so steady?

Yes I see you.

I need you to listen closely.  Not the nod your head, take it in, then move on about your day compliance either.  I need what I say to SINK in. I say this, because it is literally the difference between staying married and getting divorced. When my husband was dx, a nurse on the unit told me the divorce rate for a couple when one spouse has bipolar disorder is greater than 90%. 

GREATER THAN 90%?????

There is reason for that my friends, but the reason, I don't believe, is because people with bipolar suck.  The reason I believe, is that their spouses, and society in general does not understand the disorder at all.  It's hard.  Don't get me wrong, I get it.  The disorder affects a person's brain, and it is difficult to tease out who is the person and who is bipolar....but I'm here to tell you, it's possible.
It is difficult to understand, if you don't know, that stressors such as major life changes including: jobs, moving, deaths, and births can send a person with bipolar into an episode. 

If you know this though,  you can arm yourself with ways to prevent it, or manage it.  However, if you don't, you will live a perpetual cycle of not understanding why your spouse is acting a certain way, and you will have no tools to help them and consequently you, work through it.

In therapy, I learned that things I did and said were "triggers."  That does not mean anything was "my fault" either.  It just meant I was unknowingly contributing to my husband's illness. Let's compare it to diabetes.  What if you knew nothing about diabetes and you continued to serve meals and eat at places loaded with sugar.  Your spouse got progressively worse, but you didn't know why so you continued to serve these foods.  Had you knows these foods were "triggering" diabetes and making it worse, would you continue to serve them and eat at places you knew would make them sicker?  I'm willing to bet not.  The SAME is true for bipolar disorder.

Take the time to learn about it.  I promise you won't regret it.  I don't.

Sincerely,
A Happy Wife of 12 years to a husband with Bipolar Disorder

Words matter when it comes to suicide prevention

September is suicide prevention month. I find it remarkable that just 2 years ago I barely noticed it was suicide prevention month. In fact, I don't think I noticed at all. September was Labor Day camping, back to school, Fall leaves, pumpkin spice and everything nice.

On January 18th 2016, my dear friend of 20 years died by suicide. Since that time, I became acutely aware of not only needing a suicide prevention month like September, but the desperate need we have for this country to take mental health seriously. Mental health disorders kill people. It seems the prevailing dogma has been to blame the victim of a suicide. We say things like they "committed" suicide. We talk about how they fought "demons."

No

These words may seem harmless, but words matter, just like my friend Sarah mattered; and I refuse to be quiet. Let's take a person battling cancer. If they are to die from it, we don't say they committed death. We blame cancer. Cancer killed them. If they are lucky enough to live, we (rightfully) talk about how strong they were for winning the battle. Why do we refuse then to do the same with mental illness? Mental illness affects a person's BRAIN. It affects thought processes and mood. It can distort reality. If you are a person with a mental illness, I believe you would categorize it as a "battle" you fight every day, but instead of being called strong, society says you are weak.

No

There's a lot of work to be done as we all know it regard to mental health care, but it starts here. 

With words. 

Imagine how perspective might change and the urgency people would feel when instead of blaming the victim and saying they "committed suicide" we say something even bolder. 

Depression killed them. 

Bipolar killed them.

 Do these statements shock you?  If they do, ask yourself why?

What if, instead of saying they couldn't fight their "demons" any longer, we call it what it is and say they lost their battle with mental illness.  What if, instead of implying these people are weak, we celebrate them for being STRONG. We encourage them to go on because we recognize they find an inner strength every day.

Imagine then, when we hear when loved and celebrated people like Robin Williams, Chester Bennington, and Chris Cornell die, the world will not respond with "how could they do it?" or "why did they do it?" and instead respond like they would if it were ANY other illness or tragedy that caused death.  If this happens, perspective will shift.  Suicide will no longer be blamed on the victim and mental illness will be treated like any other illness that has the ability to cause death.

Yes.

Words matter.
Mental Health matters.
People matter.
Sarah mattered.
You matter.

September is suicide awareness month.

Book Recommendation: Loving Someone With Bipolar Disorder

In the early stages of my husband's diagnosis, I was lost.  Actually, I think we both were lost.  I didn't understand what it meant.  I didn't understand why he loved me and could be so hurtful at the same time, and I didn't know how to love him back.  It always seemed like we were fighting.  That was before I learned the terms like triggered, what works list, and boundaries, to name a few. 

The book "Loving Someone with Bipolar Disorder" by Julie Fast and John Preston was INSTRUMENTAL in helping me not only maintain, but make better the relationship with my husband.  The book is designed for both partners to read; however, I read it alone and still found it to be substantially helpful. 

I am happy to answer any questions about the book if you want to contact me, or to even do a book review if there is much interest.  Long story short, if you love someone with bipolar disorder, read this book.  It's fantastic. 

You didn't choose bipolar, but I still choose you.

Dear Husband,
I never knew when I married you 12 years ago that you were bipolar and neither did you.  We were young and in love, and our love story was turbulent but beautiful.  I figured no one else was as passionate as us, so when we were in love we were REALLY in love; and when we hated each other, we REALLY hated each other. In the end though, my heart always knew, and so,

I still chose you. 

Nine months after we were married and you started hearing things and seeing things that weren't there, I didn't understand what you were going through and didn't know it was because of bipolar. I tried to respect your delusions and listen with seriousness, until the night it was all too much and we found you surrounded by police, barefoot and afraid.  They misdiagnosed you that night as having schizophrenia and I sobbed tears that I thought would never end; but they did, and through it all,

I still chose you. 

We figured out you had bipolar disorder and you started medication and gained weight because you refused to get them adjusted and to see a psychiatrist, but you got better.  A lot better.  In fact, so much better you went back to college; something you couldn't sit through or do before.  You graduated with a bachelor of science, we had our first child, we bought a house, life was normal.  I stopped worrying the other shoe would drop.  During this time my dreams were coming true and

It was easy to choose you.

Before our first born's third birthday, we learned she had a severe developmental delay.  Those tears that seemed to come without end came again and I was lost and devastated.  Where I was weak, you were strong.  Where I was sad,  you had hope.  Where I felt the weight of the world, you let me share it on your shoulders and eased the burden.  You were my rock and as I would close my tired weary eyes bloodshot from searching the internet, I would fall onto your chest and

Choose you.

A decade, a fifth wheel, a jetski, and two kids later you decided to go off of your meds.  I was anxious and you listened to all of my concerns.  We had a plan, and a safe word.  Three months later after the summer of our lives you had your second manic episode, a felony, and a wake up call.  I knew I could get you back and every day I visited you in the hospital, sometimes twice a day and I would leave a sticky note for you that you would put on your room wall to remind you that

I still choose you.

I knew being back on medication would fix everything; but then a dark cloud floated above our home and left you sad and empty.  Nothing I could do or say could bring you back to me, and even though you were physically there, your eyes were empty.  After the long winter, the medication that once kept you stable for 10 years stopped working. Mania came back and shooed the dark cloud away, but also brought with it delusions and hallucinations.  Another hospitalization and I thought I would do what I did before, but you didn't want to see me this time.  I would visit and you would send me home.  I didn't know what to do, but

I still chose you.

You still chose me too, but once the mania faded the dark cloud came back to visit.  I don't know how long it will stay.  Sometimes I pray so hard that I see the sun find its way to us again and I think everything will the same, but the cloud is thick and covers it up again.  I see you try day after day, and I want you to know, I'll never give up on you because you're worth it.  You are always there for me, even with bipolar, and I promise I will always be there for you.  And even though you feel I would be better off with someone else, I want you to know that will never be true because I will never, ever stop fighting and

choosing YOU.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder Questionairre

I went to the doctor to discuss my anxiety.  "Everyone has anxiety" he reassured me.  He handed me a checklist and told me he would be back.

I fill out this brief, maybe 5 question checklist that rates me on a scale of 1-5, 5 being the most severe.  I read through the questions and marked every single solitary answer a 5.

I stared at it.  I scanned the top again that read "Generalized Anxiety Disorder Questionairre" and then I skimmed my answers again and started thinking one really does not need to be a doctor to diagnose me if they are looking at this checklist I am looking at.

Wow.

When he came back in he asked me how long I have felt like this.  I told him honestly, "My entire life." He immediately started writing the referral for behavioral health.  I find it so bizarre even still that I could have an anxiety disorder.  My entire family is like me.  If I have it, then all of them have one too.  He said it tends to run in families, so I clarified, "Okay, but then how much is taught and how much is genetic?"

Seemed like a good question. Without looking up from his paper he replied matter-of-factly it was genetic.  Case closed in his mind.

Wow.

So, here I am.  No official dx, but I think I know the direction this is headed.  Only time will tell.

Depression takes another victim: Goodbye to Chris Cornell

The sudden and unexpected suicide of Chris Cornell had everyone reeling.  Suicide is a taboo subject and when it happens to someone like Chris Cornell, who just a couple days ago tweeted “Happy Mother’s Day” to his wife in a sweet post and put on amazing show last night, everyone looks to why.

Listening to the radio I hear speculation of marital problems, drugs, etc etc and no one calls it what it is.

Depression.

Mental illness.

This is a man who was incredibly open about his mental illness.  Listen to any of his songs even!  Yet when it kills him, everyone wonders what was happening in his life.  A while ago I wrote a post about my friend who died by suicide too (and please take note I said died by suicide because committed suicide is offensive honestly).   Regardless of what was going on in her life, mental illness was the cause. Everything else she did stemmed from that basic fact and this country doesn’t like to acknowledge that fact. We like to blame it on something else…ANYTHING else than a mental illness. I wish as a nation we would wake up and treat mental illness like any other illness (diabetes, heart disease), it doesn’t just go away. Just because Chris’s life seemed everything was going right doesn’t mean his mental illness (depression) disappeared. If we said “but he was happily married and at the peak of his career, how could he have diabetes?”  we would sound ridiculous.  Yet that’s what we do with depression or any other mental illness.

So next time someone dies by suicide and everyone wants to know why, can we please call it out for what it is? 

Depression

or :

Mental Illness

Maybe then the stigma can change and people can get the help they really need without all the judgement before it’s too late.  

Goodbye Chris Cornell.  There’s a black hole in the bright sun today.  May you finally be free from pain.

I admire you for staying with him: The stigma of mental illness

My husband (and I) just made it through his third manic/psychotic episode. We've been together for 15 years and his last two episodes were only 9 months apart. When he had his first one 12 years ago, the best thing I ever did was find a support group. That group recommended I go to counseling and they recommended books for me to read. They taught me how to set boundaries. I was a very lost 25 year old. I learned sooo much about bipolar. I even moved out at one point to enforce a boundary. I knew if I didn't have boundaries, I would only resent him, and I knew resentment is something that is even harder to overcome.

I learned in the book "Loving Someone with Bipolar Disorder" how to separate my husband from bipolar. It wasn't easy, but the longer I am married to him, the easier it is.

This time my husband somehow went willingly. The last two he racked up criminal charges. Each time I always worry I will never get my husband back. Psychosis is very scary for all involved. He is out of inpatient and in outpatient now and he is back (with some short term memory loss that is common after an episode).

I think one of the saddest things people have said to me, is how they admired me for staying with him. I want to tell these well meaning people that I love him. I married my best friend 12 years ago. He is an AWESOME husband. He is an AWESOME dad, he's a brilliant engineer, and he quite honestly is the funnest person I have ever been around. He makes me feel safe, he protects me, he makes me laugh, he takes us camping, he's simply the best....and sometimes, he is sick. Very sick. I think it's sad I get a pass to bail because his sickness is in the head. It just proves what a stigma mental illness still has, because if it were anything else (cancer for example) no one would give me a pass and sympathetic nod to leave.

I know there are circumstances of abuse, or infidelity, and this post is by NO means to say you should stay. My husband tries to be med compliant. He tries to manage it the best he can, and I know he is trying his best. Some don't, and then I get it if you have to leave.

I guess I just want to say, I am grateful for all the support, past and present that I have received. I'm grateful for those willing to share their story and help me learn. I'm grateful for those who simply offer a prayer with me when I needed it the most. I'm grateful we live in a time medicine can help this disorder so my kids still have a dad they love who takes them for bike rides, and plays legos with them, and helps them do their hw. I'm grateful that after three scary episodes, I get my husband and best friend back each time somehow because of modern medicine. 

My husband has bipolar 1 disorder, but it doesn't have him.  It tries, by God it tries; but he comes back swinging every time, and I'm so, so proud of him.

The Visit

Countdown to the hour I get to

See you

Feel you

Touch you

15 years familiar and I still

Get nervous

Feel anxious

Feel insecure

Once inside you tell me you

Cursed me

Love me

Watched me

Watched me from the window above, so when I left, instead of looking down, I looked up and I saw

Your shape

Your shirt

Your sadness

Back out I rolled down my window and 

Waved

You waved

We looked away

It will always be you

Oh boy Ydoc.  Here we go again.  I knew that fateful night you told me you were going off meds this day would come.  I knew because I respected you too much to fight you on something I knew I would do myself.

You've been stable for the last 10 years.  An entire decade really.  After your first manic/psychotic episode you vowed to never stop taking medication again.

Until that night.  I rung my hands and peeled paper off of my beer bottle.

"Why are you nervous?" you asked with genuine concern.

"I"m scared.  We need you."  I replied.

You were so understanding.  This was important to you.  You knew you had it figured out.  You needed sleep.  That was the secret formula.  You were compassionate and understanding of my worry.  What could you do to make me feel better?

We agreed on a "safe word."  A word I could say that would make you go in and get treatment.

Oklahoma

That was the word.

I vowed to never use that word unless I meant it.  You challenged me many times.  When you were mad and raging you dared me to use it.  You demanded I use it.  Rage and anger weren't why I needed the safe word.  I never uttered it between my lips.

This summer, the summer of 2016 was the best yet.  Will you write an album someday?  The summer of 2016?  It would be killer.  It starts with fun, fun, and more fun.  Camping, jetskiing, camping, sand, water, jetskiing, blue sky, warm breeze, tan skin, cold drinks, happy kids, fun friends, new bike....best...summer...ever.

Until

A switch.  Not of the seasons.  Not of a light.  Not of anything I can put into words.  Without warning in 48 hours, I went from having my hot, fun yet responsible and loving husband and father.....to having a manic, psychotic felon, sitting in jail.

How did we get here?

What the fuck happened?

Oh yeah.  You're still bipolar.
Oh yeah.  You still have one of the most severe types of bipolar.
Oh yeah.  Your brain still fights you.

Oh.....yeah.

Sigh

You went off of meds right before school ended in May.  I told a co-worker I was scared and to my surprise I started crying.  I told her though, that if something happened to you, actually, if THIS happened to you and I for some reason, never got you back, I would still consider myself lucky because for 10 years I had THE love of my life.  I had THE time of my life.

Ydoc, you have and always have been my soul mate.  From the moment I saw you it was like a lightening bolt between us.  I tried to deny it at first where you took it and ran, but in the end, how lucky were we?

You are my Cash and I'm your June.

You have bipolar but bipolar is NOT you.

I miss you. I know you think you are broken, and I know you wonder how I can feel safe with you, but that's because I know bipolar is NOT you.

I saw you begin to come undone again.  The second time in 9 months.  I know you tried your very best to hang on.  I know you fought it off as long as you could.  I know my anxiety made you worse. I know I have anxiety, but I also love you so much, and you're so important to this family that I cannot imagine it without you as the head and so I can't help but work myself up into a frenzy.  I'm sorry.

Don't shake your head.  Don't tell me you're not the strong one.  Don't let bipolar define you.  You amaze me everyday.  You're determination through the midst of such a difficult disorder makes you the strongest person I know.  Somehow, even with the weight of depression you get up and go to work each day.  Somehow, even when you're manic and your fuse is short, you manage to take a step back and come back even better.  When you had to go back to work after a hospitalization, you bravely woke up that morning and marched into work.  You never once complained.

That is strength.  That is brave.

You know what else is brave?  You were in the midst of a manic episode, and when almost every doctor and informational text about mania says the individual in the midst of an episode lacks insight, you got in the car and voluntarily went to the hospital.  I saw you fight back tears.  I saw you fight back the demons overtaking your brain.  What's more, is I know you were able to do it, you were able to defy those odds, those text book descriptions, because of your love for me and our children.

I hope you're not mad at me.  If you are though, I have to accept that consequence, because honestly it's better than what the alternative would have been....which was jail for you and my kids not seeing their dad (their AWESOME AWESOME dad) for a year.  Don't be mad at me. Please.  There is no manual and I'm doing the best I can.  All I know is I love you and miss you and didn't want you to go the hospital either, but I'd rather you be there than in jail.  You don't belong in jail.  You're the victim. The victim of a brain that turns against you.

I will always love you.  It will always be you.  I will always miss you when you're gone and feel happy and safe when you are home.

The house is empty without you.  I leave a light on......

The four words that set me free

The signs have always been there.  Though not as eye catching as a neon sign or obvious as a billboard, I suppose there have always been signs.

The signs are usually only noticeable to those who know me well, really well.  It may be as innocent as a click, click of my nails as they flick against each other; or the way I hold my hands and slowly wring them, oh so slowly, so as not to be obvious.  Internally though my heart is beating anything but slowly and sometimes, it feels as though it skips a beat and causes me to lose my breath.  Internally I begin sweating so profusely I could and will soak my shirt and I try and take deep breaths because it feels like I have none left.
If you look close, you may notice my chest, neck or ears are flushed.  A physical reaction I can't hide with a smile.

Outside I smile and laugh it off.  The perfect poker face.  As long as I smile no one knows what is going on inside.  Make eye contact, nod reassuringly, and everyone believes I am fine.

Behind my smile my mind races down every possible worst scenario in any given situation.  I push these thoughts out by keeping busy.  I never say no.  Keeping busy means I won't be left alone to think.

Outside, others see a perfectionist.  An overachiever.  A person who seems so put-together.  I smile again, remembering it's the the perfect poker face, and their words serve to persuade me that they are in fact true.

When I'm alone though, it all creeps back in.  Like a shadow crawling up my back I start to feel fear, uncertainty and that's when I know....

I suffer from anxiety.

I've never said those four words before.  "I suffer from anxiety."  I don't like them, and yet I feel relief from writing it down.  Maybe those four words will set me free.

When you know better you DO better... A Post about Blue Monday

Have you seen the popular facebook re-post this month? There are variations, but for the most part it reads, “My door is always open, the coffee pot is always on (well, I’ll make some!) and my sofa is always warm and a place of peace and non judgement. Any of my family and friends who need to chat are welcome anytime . It’s no good suffering in silence. I have cold drinks in the fridge…tea & coffee in the cupboard and I will always be here. …You are never not welcome!! Blue Monday is a name given to a day in January (typically the third Monday of the month) reported to be the most depressing day of the year and January the worst month for suicides, it’s always good to talk but even better to listen. This hits closer to home than we think. I’ll always lend an ear and a shoulder…….and my heart. Post if you are an advocate too. This is a re-post, and I mean it!”

I had never heard of “blue Monday” before. You would think I would have been acutely aware of its existence, last year, January 18th, 2016. It was in fact the third Monday in January, and it was also the day my friend of 22 years died by suicide.

I was tempted to re-post the sentiment. Shared undoubtedly with the best of intentions, something in it felt empty to me. See, I’ve learned a lot in this past year. I wrote a piece on my friend’s death that was shared by various news outlets and I read, or did my best to read, every single comment. I learned a lot from the comments. Some of them were very hard to read. In the end though, this is about starting a conversation and erasing the stigma; so if I were to shy away from comments that are difficult to hear, I too just become part of the problem.

The most important piece of advice I took away, was that a person in despair or a person with suicidal thoughts will in fact NOT reach out to you. This was echoed in multiple comments across multiple outlets by those who have been there themselves. Many scoffed at my assertion that had my friend called or texted I would have ran to her side. Some were kinder and tried to gently point out that is not how depression works.

The bottom line though is this: Re-posting a generic facebook status update regarding mental health, depression and suicide is certainly better than nothing, but it’s still not going to save any lives. I’m not saying this to sound callous, cruel or judgmental. I say this as someone that wishes I had known this one year ago. I say this as someone who didn’t even think suicide was an option for my friend until it happened, I say this to maybe be a voice to those who are suffering right now and who took the time to comment and try and educate me on the condition.

The facebook sentiment is a start, but please, please, PLEASE do more if you think someone is struggling. Even if you don’t think suicide is an end result like I did, reach out. Reach out! Reach out in a personal message, a card, a call, really anything more than a generic facebook post.

I can’t bring Sarah back. One suicide is completed there are no second chances. Maya Angelou was a poet Sarah and I loved. She once said, “When you know better, you do better.” I wish knowing better hadn’t been at the expense of Sarah’s life, but since it is, there is only one thing left to do in her honor:

Do better. We have to do better. I love you Sarah.