Now get to the point...
So I just came to realize that I neglected to mention the main reason I decided to write again. Yes, the mental illnesses I am living with on a day to day basis play a major part. However, what I failed to talk about was the fact that I am now pregnant with my third child; pregnant and dealing with the sides effects of medication withdrawal, and handling the many faces of my mentality.
I am currently just short of three months along in this pregnancy, having found out very early on. Prior to this pregnancy coming to light, I was in a good place in my life. For me, at least. To others, they may have continued to walk upon eggshells around me, for fear of relapse. Relapse of what, you may ask? Alcoholism. In recent years, I had turned to the drug as a means of escape; escape from a world I refused to live in. I wanted to be numb; I wanted nothing more than to coast through life in a drunken stupor, and have the world, the families, the friends I had, know none the wiser. It worked; for a time. Like most things in this life, actions have consequences. My actions, as radical and extreme as they were, were always bested by the terrible, inconceivable consequences I brought forth solely on my own. Towards the end of this three year haze, I lost so much; and, in reality, I should have lost it all. The families who grew to love me and forgive me time and time again; the children I had brought into this world who only knew their mother as an angry, "sick" parent; the friends who, time after time, I pushed away. Ironically enough, I believed that pushing them away would save them from the pain; pain I, ultimately, caused them anyway. It took me being found, unconscious in a wooded area by impressionable children, to be brought back to reality. It took being rushed to the ER, having tests done, blood taken, being strapped down to a gurney, to awaken me from the haze. But, most importantly, it took my husband, a man who has been through and taken so much from me for so long, to tell me that now considered himself a single parent.
At this point, I was taken to a psych ward; a place I am, unfortunately, all too familiar with. For those of you reading, I am sure you can relate; the white walls, the doctors and nurses treating you more as a statistic rather than a human being, being stripped of all your freedom, this was my new home for the next eight days. It was at this institution that I was diagnosed with multiple mental illnesses; Borderline Personality Disorder, Anxiety/Mood Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, along with the depression and ADHD I had become accustomed to for the majority of my life. One illness stemmed from another that stemmed from another; they were all connected, all caused by one another, following each other in a disturbing downward spiral. They ate away at me for so long, that I just assumed I was, in a sense, "crazy"; not in the traditional sense, but more along the lines of, I could never live a normal life, for I was not anyone you could ever consider "normal" or "good enough." Being diagnosed, however, I felt a sense of relief; to be cliche, a weight lifted from my shoulders, a burden fell away from my being. I had a face to the diseases that had been eating away at me for countless years. Maybe, I could begin life anew, and cross the stepping stones that led to normalcy one at a time. However, it was not that simple. It was, like any other part of life, not easy; it was going to take time, effort, tears, and work, and I was not going to like every moment of it. Medications were given, taken away, dosages increased, decreased; all in a matter of a week. It wasn't until I began my journey on the path of sobriety did the real challenge begin.
After my stay at the psychiatric ward, I was transferred to a Drug & Alcohol Rehabilitation Center in Philadelphia. "Drug & Alcohol"...I found it to be funny after the fact, considering this was the place where I first discovered that alcohol is, in fact, a drug. The most dangerous drug of all, according to some of the clients I was housed with. Not only is it legal, but it is cheap and easily accessible. Realizing for the first time that I was, in a sense, a drug addict, I started to see a whole new world open up before me. The two months I spent at this Rehabilitation Center were, and excuse my language, fucking terrifying; there were criminals, murderers, drug lords, prostitutes, all with hardened hearts and no morality. They didn't care what you looked like, where you came from, where you grew up, who you knew; to them, you were an addict just as much as they were. Same as it is with drugs; they did not discriminate, they only saw you at your most vulnerable.
While I continued to be medicated throughout my stay at this center, I began to come to terms with who I truly was as a person. I began writing again on a daily basis, about every second of my day. There was no texting, no internet. This was writing, with a pen and a piece of paper, in a journal. Raw, emotional, gritty writing. People have become so consumed with technology, that they fail to see the importance of being able to survive without it. Writing allowed me the freedom to open up, to say what I wanted to say and not be judged. Writing became my best (and only) friend at this point, and I welcomed it with open arms.
I mentioned earlier that I could have lost everything and everyone; for a brief moment, I did. I felt like there was no coming back from my actions; my mental illness made me believe that. It screamed at me, "this is all they will ever see; a drug addict who made a mess of their life, and who will lie to regain trust." Which, in all honesty, I had done throughout most of my life. I had lied to acquire trust, sympathy, love from others. I didn't care who was in my path; I would hurt them, I would use them, and I would move on. That is how I lived my life for as long as I can remember. Upsetting, right? To me, it wasn't. It was all I knew, it was what I had control over. Dabbling in theater had only taught me to perfect this manipulative art. Shed a tear here, spread a rumor there; I had become the bullies who had tormented me since I was five years old, but I could not accept it. What sickens me down to my core, was that I did this the people who loved and cared for me the most; who never gave up on me, who fought for me to stay alive and be happy.
My husband, and this is the honest to God truth, should have left me the moment he saw the real me. But I begged, I pleaded, I cried, and I lied to get him to stay. And he did. He came back, forgave me, time after time. Why? Because he loved me. And to this day, I do not understand why. We are married, with two children and one on the way, and I cannot see any reason why he should love me. He forgave me for each and every whirlwind of a mess I put him through; he wanted nothing more than to see me be healthy. But, everyone has their breaking point, and his was watching me stumble drunkenly out the door the night of August 9th, and not chasing after me. He needed me to accept my faults, accept that I had "a problem", and get the help I so desperately, unknowingly desired. Yet, while I was attempting to heal mind, body, and soul at the Rehabilitation facility, I kept pushing him away with each and every phone call. I didn't feel worthy of him; I didn't want to take up any more of his time. I didn't want him to have to hurt because of me anymore. That was a part of my mental illness; it kept telling me he was better off without me, that he should gain sole custody of our children, and that I should live the remainder of my miserable, unfulfilled life alone. It was seen to me as a suitable punishment; I hurt you, so you can hurt me. It's only fair, right? But, that's not how my husband saw it. Upon being discharged from the Rehab facility, he was at the time away on business. I will never forget the moment I saw him as I picked him up from the airport; we were together again, as a family, and we were going to start over.
But, it's never that easy, right? There are always setbacks, always arguments, not always seeing eye to eye. The imperfections of marriage that no one ever enjoys talking about. Well, my mental illnesses were busy putting up quite the battle; they didn't like being silenced by medications and learned mindfulness. The taunts in my mind were angry, and they needed to be released. And so began yet another struggle, a struggle of attempting to keep my demons at bay. I began to write more poetry, yet I also began to shy away from my family once again. Never to the point of picking up the poison, but to the point where a bottle of sleeping pills looked pretty friendly and comforting. Then there were the up's and down's; the seemingly almost split personality I had grown so attached to. Being one who is diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, the symptoms and characteristics almost mirror Bi Polar Disorder perfectly; hence making my mental illness difficult to diagnose. I was misdiagnosed with Bi Polar on several an occasion; but the medications ceased to help. I wasn't a carrier of that fine illness, though being Borderline isn't exactly a cake walk (That's a term, right? Cake walk?) Back to the point; my demons were itching to come out, and I began to yet again hurt those around me with my words. It was as though I had no filter, as if I thought getting out what was on my mind would make things better.
Spoiler; it didn't.
On the contrary, around mid-January of this year, me and my ill speaking thoughts began to yet again tear my husband and I apart. I didn't understand why; I was on medication, I was following doctor's orders, I was talking to my therapist about all the right things (what's bothering me, how was my week, so on and so forth go the practiced speeches). I took a pregnancy test on the off-chance I was possibly pregnant (for those of you wondering, yes, I was on birth control); and, well what do you know? There were those two little positive lines. Clear as day. Instead of being ecstatic like any expectant mother should be, my mind immediately went into overdrive. I thought my husband would hate me, I thought that he would think I became pregnant on purpose because I had been going on and on about how much I desired to have another child, I thought he would tell me to have an abortion. But, he didn't say any of those things; he was surprised, yes, but he was happy. Why wasn't I happy? Why couldn't I feel the same joy as he did? To word that better; why couldn't I feel joy the same way he did? My emotions have always been, shall I say, inappropriate. I either feel too much, or feel too little, and always at the wrong times. So I was pregnant; I was supposed to be happy. But I wasn't. It didn't feel real. So, I took about three more pregnancy tests, just to be sure. There were those two little lines, test after test. Even upon having my first ultrasound done, and seeing the little one growing inside me, I felt detached from it all. I assumed it was because of my medications, since mood stabilizers tend to, you know, stabilize one's mood.
Here's where things start to get messy once again. The main medication I was on was Lithium. As most patients of this medication know, Lithium affects your blood levels, and can be deadly if taken at the wrong dosage. It is also an extreme no-no in pregnancy, as it can cause anything and everything terrible to happen. So, under my doctor's orders, I stopped taking it. Now, when you withdrawal from a medication such as Lithium, and you have been regulated on it for quite some time, going off it "cold turkey" can have extreme consequences and side effects. I was the epitome of all of them. Suicidal, depressing thoughts, wanting to harm myself, crying over the littlest thing. These could have, however, also been from the hormones raging inside of me due to my pregnancy. So now, imagine hormones + Lithium withdrawal. It is not a beautiful outcome. In all honesty, I cannot tell you much that has happened between mid-January and now. It all seems to blend together, one day into the next. But, here's where I triumph. I stood my ground throughout this period; I never once harmed myself, in any sense of the word. I will not lie; it was tempting on more occasions than not. While I stayed strong in this area of my life, elsewhere, everything seemed to be falling apart; including my marriage. The one thing I had tried so hard to hold onto was slipping through my hands once again, and once again, it was at my own doing. I raged at my husband, I scolded my children for nothing, I went on cleaning rampages and highs and lows. Yet, nothing I did seemed to fill that void I felt.
And here I am today. I feel the same way, but being on a substitute medication has helped, and again I apologize for the cliche, "take the edge off." What I want to know is this; am I capable of feeling happiness, contentment? Am I able to be just "okay", even if for a moment? I cannot remember a time where I felt these emotions for more than a fleeting second. These are the thoughts that haunt me every day. I may smile, I may talk loud and obnoxiously, I may act overly friendly and happy; but I'm not. It's okay to not be okay, I know that. But it's not okay with me to feel nothing but the anger, the hurt, the rage, the fear, the constant worry and dread. This is what my story is. This is who I am. It's about me trying to get to that place where I can smile and say, today was a good day. And I want you all to know, too, that it is possible. We aren't deprived of happiness because of others; we need to stop waiting around for the world to please us, and begin to create our own happiness. Will you follow me down this road?
Also, I have posted one of my pieces of work below, for all of you to see. I find it helps me describe my current mood, better than a simple emoji. Please read, and remember, you are not alone in this fight.
Sticks & Stones
So sick of living in a place
Where I know I don't belong
So tired of hearing all the whispers
Chant “just push through, and be strong”
The truth, they believe, is far from fact
For they only hear just one side
The biased opinions stream endlessly
Which I can no longer abide
My mind wears, my heart breaks
I become weak, tears begin to fall
Who knew only words could break one down
To feel so belittled, so small
Is there any point in speaking up for oneself
Knowing what ridicule lies ahead?
Should I bury what hope I clung to so tight,
And just accept my fate instead?
I could give in, yes, I could let them win
They, throwing their sticks and stones
Or I could break free, overcome the assault
Though it shall leave me standing alone
The pros and the cons of an eternal strife
Exhausts the soul and the mind
To just “let it go” as so many say
Is easily said, harder to find.
I am currently just short of three months along in this pregnancy, having found out very early on. Prior to this pregnancy coming to light, I was in a good place in my life. For me, at least. To others, they may have continued to walk upon eggshells around me, for fear of relapse. Relapse of what, you may ask? Alcoholism. In recent years, I had turned to the drug as a means of escape; escape from a world I refused to live in. I wanted to be numb; I wanted nothing more than to coast through life in a drunken stupor, and have the world, the families, the friends I had, know none the wiser. It worked; for a time. Like most things in this life, actions have consequences. My actions, as radical and extreme as they were, were always bested by the terrible, inconceivable consequences I brought forth solely on my own. Towards the end of this three year haze, I lost so much; and, in reality, I should have lost it all. The families who grew to love me and forgive me time and time again; the children I had brought into this world who only knew their mother as an angry, "sick" parent; the friends who, time after time, I pushed away. Ironically enough, I believed that pushing them away would save them from the pain; pain I, ultimately, caused them anyway. It took me being found, unconscious in a wooded area by impressionable children, to be brought back to reality. It took being rushed to the ER, having tests done, blood taken, being strapped down to a gurney, to awaken me from the haze. But, most importantly, it took my husband, a man who has been through and taken so much from me for so long, to tell me that now considered himself a single parent.
At this point, I was taken to a psych ward; a place I am, unfortunately, all too familiar with. For those of you reading, I am sure you can relate; the white walls, the doctors and nurses treating you more as a statistic rather than a human being, being stripped of all your freedom, this was my new home for the next eight days. It was at this institution that I was diagnosed with multiple mental illnesses; Borderline Personality Disorder, Anxiety/Mood Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, along with the depression and ADHD I had become accustomed to for the majority of my life. One illness stemmed from another that stemmed from another; they were all connected, all caused by one another, following each other in a disturbing downward spiral. They ate away at me for so long, that I just assumed I was, in a sense, "crazy"; not in the traditional sense, but more along the lines of, I could never live a normal life, for I was not anyone you could ever consider "normal" or "good enough." Being diagnosed, however, I felt a sense of relief; to be cliche, a weight lifted from my shoulders, a burden fell away from my being. I had a face to the diseases that had been eating away at me for countless years. Maybe, I could begin life anew, and cross the stepping stones that led to normalcy one at a time. However, it was not that simple. It was, like any other part of life, not easy; it was going to take time, effort, tears, and work, and I was not going to like every moment of it. Medications were given, taken away, dosages increased, decreased; all in a matter of a week. It wasn't until I began my journey on the path of sobriety did the real challenge begin.
After my stay at the psychiatric ward, I was transferred to a Drug & Alcohol Rehabilitation Center in Philadelphia. "Drug & Alcohol"...I found it to be funny after the fact, considering this was the place where I first discovered that alcohol is, in fact, a drug. The most dangerous drug of all, according to some of the clients I was housed with. Not only is it legal, but it is cheap and easily accessible. Realizing for the first time that I was, in a sense, a drug addict, I started to see a whole new world open up before me. The two months I spent at this Rehabilitation Center were, and excuse my language, fucking terrifying; there were criminals, murderers, drug lords, prostitutes, all with hardened hearts and no morality. They didn't care what you looked like, where you came from, where you grew up, who you knew; to them, you were an addict just as much as they were. Same as it is with drugs; they did not discriminate, they only saw you at your most vulnerable.
While I continued to be medicated throughout my stay at this center, I began to come to terms with who I truly was as a person. I began writing again on a daily basis, about every second of my day. There was no texting, no internet. This was writing, with a pen and a piece of paper, in a journal. Raw, emotional, gritty writing. People have become so consumed with technology, that they fail to see the importance of being able to survive without it. Writing allowed me the freedom to open up, to say what I wanted to say and not be judged. Writing became my best (and only) friend at this point, and I welcomed it with open arms.
I mentioned earlier that I could have lost everything and everyone; for a brief moment, I did. I felt like there was no coming back from my actions; my mental illness made me believe that. It screamed at me, "this is all they will ever see; a drug addict who made a mess of their life, and who will lie to regain trust." Which, in all honesty, I had done throughout most of my life. I had lied to acquire trust, sympathy, love from others. I didn't care who was in my path; I would hurt them, I would use them, and I would move on. That is how I lived my life for as long as I can remember. Upsetting, right? To me, it wasn't. It was all I knew, it was what I had control over. Dabbling in theater had only taught me to perfect this manipulative art. Shed a tear here, spread a rumor there; I had become the bullies who had tormented me since I was five years old, but I could not accept it. What sickens me down to my core, was that I did this the people who loved and cared for me the most; who never gave up on me, who fought for me to stay alive and be happy.
My husband, and this is the honest to God truth, should have left me the moment he saw the real me. But I begged, I pleaded, I cried, and I lied to get him to stay. And he did. He came back, forgave me, time after time. Why? Because he loved me. And to this day, I do not understand why. We are married, with two children and one on the way, and I cannot see any reason why he should love me. He forgave me for each and every whirlwind of a mess I put him through; he wanted nothing more than to see me be healthy. But, everyone has their breaking point, and his was watching me stumble drunkenly out the door the night of August 9th, and not chasing after me. He needed me to accept my faults, accept that I had "a problem", and get the help I so desperately, unknowingly desired. Yet, while I was attempting to heal mind, body, and soul at the Rehabilitation facility, I kept pushing him away with each and every phone call. I didn't feel worthy of him; I didn't want to take up any more of his time. I didn't want him to have to hurt because of me anymore. That was a part of my mental illness; it kept telling me he was better off without me, that he should gain sole custody of our children, and that I should live the remainder of my miserable, unfulfilled life alone. It was seen to me as a suitable punishment; I hurt you, so you can hurt me. It's only fair, right? But, that's not how my husband saw it. Upon being discharged from the Rehab facility, he was at the time away on business. I will never forget the moment I saw him as I picked him up from the airport; we were together again, as a family, and we were going to start over.
But, it's never that easy, right? There are always setbacks, always arguments, not always seeing eye to eye. The imperfections of marriage that no one ever enjoys talking about. Well, my mental illnesses were busy putting up quite the battle; they didn't like being silenced by medications and learned mindfulness. The taunts in my mind were angry, and they needed to be released. And so began yet another struggle, a struggle of attempting to keep my demons at bay. I began to write more poetry, yet I also began to shy away from my family once again. Never to the point of picking up the poison, but to the point where a bottle of sleeping pills looked pretty friendly and comforting. Then there were the up's and down's; the seemingly almost split personality I had grown so attached to. Being one who is diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, the symptoms and characteristics almost mirror Bi Polar Disorder perfectly; hence making my mental illness difficult to diagnose. I was misdiagnosed with Bi Polar on several an occasion; but the medications ceased to help. I wasn't a carrier of that fine illness, though being Borderline isn't exactly a cake walk (That's a term, right? Cake walk?) Back to the point; my demons were itching to come out, and I began to yet again hurt those around me with my words. It was as though I had no filter, as if I thought getting out what was on my mind would make things better.
Spoiler; it didn't.
On the contrary, around mid-January of this year, me and my ill speaking thoughts began to yet again tear my husband and I apart. I didn't understand why; I was on medication, I was following doctor's orders, I was talking to my therapist about all the right things (what's bothering me, how was my week, so on and so forth go the practiced speeches). I took a pregnancy test on the off-chance I was possibly pregnant (for those of you wondering, yes, I was on birth control); and, well what do you know? There were those two little positive lines. Clear as day. Instead of being ecstatic like any expectant mother should be, my mind immediately went into overdrive. I thought my husband would hate me, I thought that he would think I became pregnant on purpose because I had been going on and on about how much I desired to have another child, I thought he would tell me to have an abortion. But, he didn't say any of those things; he was surprised, yes, but he was happy. Why wasn't I happy? Why couldn't I feel the same joy as he did? To word that better; why couldn't I feel joy the same way he did? My emotions have always been, shall I say, inappropriate. I either feel too much, or feel too little, and always at the wrong times. So I was pregnant; I was supposed to be happy. But I wasn't. It didn't feel real. So, I took about three more pregnancy tests, just to be sure. There were those two little lines, test after test. Even upon having my first ultrasound done, and seeing the little one growing inside me, I felt detached from it all. I assumed it was because of my medications, since mood stabilizers tend to, you know, stabilize one's mood.
Here's where things start to get messy once again. The main medication I was on was Lithium. As most patients of this medication know, Lithium affects your blood levels, and can be deadly if taken at the wrong dosage. It is also an extreme no-no in pregnancy, as it can cause anything and everything terrible to happen. So, under my doctor's orders, I stopped taking it. Now, when you withdrawal from a medication such as Lithium, and you have been regulated on it for quite some time, going off it "cold turkey" can have extreme consequences and side effects. I was the epitome of all of them. Suicidal, depressing thoughts, wanting to harm myself, crying over the littlest thing. These could have, however, also been from the hormones raging inside of me due to my pregnancy. So now, imagine hormones + Lithium withdrawal. It is not a beautiful outcome. In all honesty, I cannot tell you much that has happened between mid-January and now. It all seems to blend together, one day into the next. But, here's where I triumph. I stood my ground throughout this period; I never once harmed myself, in any sense of the word. I will not lie; it was tempting on more occasions than not. While I stayed strong in this area of my life, elsewhere, everything seemed to be falling apart; including my marriage. The one thing I had tried so hard to hold onto was slipping through my hands once again, and once again, it was at my own doing. I raged at my husband, I scolded my children for nothing, I went on cleaning rampages and highs and lows. Yet, nothing I did seemed to fill that void I felt.
And here I am today. I feel the same way, but being on a substitute medication has helped, and again I apologize for the cliche, "take the edge off." What I want to know is this; am I capable of feeling happiness, contentment? Am I able to be just "okay", even if for a moment? I cannot remember a time where I felt these emotions for more than a fleeting second. These are the thoughts that haunt me every day. I may smile, I may talk loud and obnoxiously, I may act overly friendly and happy; but I'm not. It's okay to not be okay, I know that. But it's not okay with me to feel nothing but the anger, the hurt, the rage, the fear, the constant worry and dread. This is what my story is. This is who I am. It's about me trying to get to that place where I can smile and say, today was a good day. And I want you all to know, too, that it is possible. We aren't deprived of happiness because of others; we need to stop waiting around for the world to please us, and begin to create our own happiness. Will you follow me down this road?
Also, I have posted one of my pieces of work below, for all of you to see. I find it helps me describe my current mood, better than a simple emoji. Please read, and remember, you are not alone in this fight.
Sticks & Stones
So sick of living in a place
Where I know I don't belong
So tired of hearing all the whispers
Chant “just push through, and be strong”
The truth, they believe, is far from fact
For they only hear just one side
The biased opinions stream endlessly
Which I can no longer abide
My mind wears, my heart breaks
I become weak, tears begin to fall
Who knew only words could break one down
To feel so belittled, so small
Is there any point in speaking up for oneself
Knowing what ridicule lies ahead?
Should I bury what hope I clung to so tight,
And just accept my fate instead?
I could give in, yes, I could let them win
They, throwing their sticks and stones
Or I could break free, overcome the assault
Though it shall leave me standing alone
The pros and the cons of an eternal strife
Exhausts the soul and the mind
To just “let it go” as so many say
Is easily said, harder to find.