Friday, May 07, 2010

Breaking the Silence

black mountain symphony :: lucky dog, worcester, ma :: march 31, 2010

Staring at the floorboards for what seems like an hour. Looking out the window, it’s starting to shower. They say, “It’s all in your head.”
“Grandfather” - Black Mountain Symphony

How I wish it were all in my head!!

I mean, I know it is all in my head… it’s bad brain chemistry, but I wish this was something I could control.

Some days, the meds just don’t work. There’s no fighting biology some times.

And that, my friends, fucking sucks.

Such is the life of someone with bipolar…

I have been having a REALLY. BAD. TIME. lately. Really bad.

Since I’ve started the new job, and finally have an excellent idea of just what I’ve gotten myself into, I’ve really been keeping a tight watch on my cycles. I’m careful to work like mad one weekend and take the next one off. I’m trying to avoid anything and everything that could even come close to stressing me out. (Outside of work stress. There’s no way to escape that yet. Except working weekends…)

Well, all the prep and calendars and med management in the world couldn’t keep me sane during the past few weeks.

I’ve been in the middle of a manic cycle and I just knew my father’s anniversary was going to suck. It wasn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy (as was suggested by someone GRR!), it was just a fact. I knew that it was going to be rough - when the nightmares start, I’m a walking wreck. I’m sorry. That’s just the way it works and I was having the nightmares long before the anniversary. So yeah. Reliving the afternoon I found my father and then ID’ing him in the coffin every night for a week or two is certainly a harbinger of what’s to come.

As if the nightmares and manic cycle weren’t enough, Mother Nature decided that she had another trick up her sleeve: PMS.  Thank you, Mother Nature. Take an already mentally unstable person and screw with her…

Oh yeah, my mother’s birthday is May 3rd. My parents’ wedding anniversary is the 10th and Mother’s Day is the 9th this year.

Recipe. For. Disaster.

I started reaching out to those who knew me before all hell broke loose. I started reaching out to other members of The Dead Parents Club.

Apparently, that was an ingredient in the recipe.

I don’t know why, but EVERYBODY and their mother (ha ha ha) decided they all knew what was best for me. How to beat the bipolar. How to move past the 30th. What kind of clothes I should wear to fencing. What kind of house we should build. What I should do with my hair. Even a well meaning friend added fuel to the fire when they commented on what type of bicycles the hubby and I should get.

I just kept getting so, so, so upset that I went pretty nuclear.

The meds normally keep me from getting to that point, but it was pretty much “abandon hope, all ye who enter here” by then.

I don’t know what to say…

I know who I am. I know what I want…

I am grieving. I am an orphan.

I want my father back.

If anyone has any suggestions on how to bring him back (and not zombie-back, because EWWWW!), then I’m open to your advice.

If not, please keep your opinions to yourself.

I can’t deal with people telling me things that go contrary to what I want or who I am. Not right now, at least. I don’t have the strength to deal with it…

Talk to me next weekend - after The Ick has passed and I have regained my sanity.