bconn
09-13-2002, 09:43 AM
There is a depth of darkness that is deep, moist, and close. It is where I go when I am upset. I don’t choose to go there, I am taken there without any recourse. I can’t escape, I can’t let go, and I can’t run away. It is my mind. I am bi-polar. That’s manic-depressive to those who don’t know the “new” term for an old illness. From what I understand, it is a mental disease that is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. I don’t know if that’s true, and I don’t know if I care if that is true. I just want you to understand what happens. So I begin….
For as long as I can remember, I have known that most of the things that have happened around me (to me?) are my fault. That somehow, the actions of others, the consequences of those actions, the responsibility of those actions, are mine. I don’t have to do anything, I don’t even have to be there, I just have to know about it and I own the guilt. Funny, I don’t own the credit when it’s a good thing that results from actions of others. That would be nice!
I replay, over and over and over, an event until I know that it isn’t really my fault, but it is. I know that people tell me that I am assuming the guilt (faults) of others, but I never get to believe that. I can have the assurance that others know that I am not at fault, but somehow that doesn’t matter. I hear them – I just don’t believe them. I know that I am to blame.
This is like hitting your head against a wall until your head just explodes. My head implodes. My heart aches with the sadness that my head is feeling. There is never enough balance between the two to make me know that I am ok. There is never enough assurance that others know that I am ok. Because I’m not. I’m not ok.
When I took the medication, it was worse. A whole lot worse. I wasn’t me; I wasn’t anything but raw, heavyweight emotion. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t reason, I couldn’t cope. It was the meds at work against each other and I could not separate myself from them; at least until I was able to stop, to wean myself from the meds, from the emotionally roller coaster that the meds made me feel like I was always on. That roller coaster was like being me in super motion!
When I am in an “episode” (a manic state, I call it), I don’t really look different unless you know my face. It isn’t a different smile, but a smile with no meaning. A smile that isn’t true. And if you know me, you would know that my smile wasn’t really a smile at all but a facial expression for the rest of the world. I know that smile. I have looked at it in the mirror of my heart and have known that I wasn’t smiling inside.
I am sad a lot. But usually it is a sadness that I can and do handle. Most people, even family, can’t tell. I have learned how to hide it well. I can laugh, I can joke, I can keep up the appearances, but I can’t do it inside. When it gets too much, I can take a pill that will give me some relief. It doesn’t solve my problems but it gives me the chance to solve my problems by giving me a chance to breathe the air that is mine. I can’t take it all the time because I don’t trust the pills anymore. Not after what was done to me with meds in the beginning.
So let me try to explain. I can do that by giving examples. This is not meant to place blame, it is meant to show you (me?) the way that I become, the way that I am. (I could use your help, you know?)
When someone does something wrong to me, I will allow them to convince me that what they did wrong was my fault. That I caused it to happen. That I made it happen. That I was only worth that event. That I was only worth that outcome. How do you explain that so that it makes sense to the outside? You don’t. You just know it inside. And inside is what really counts when you are bi-polar.
My mind is blank with blackness that is movement. It pulses, it moves, it squeezes, it pushes, it pulls. It is thick and sticky. It’s pliable like gum that loses its taste. It sticks to every thought, every feeling. Or rather, every thought, every feeling sticks to that blackness that just swells with the holding of all that I have done wrong. It is not a nice deep black that shines. It is a blackness that absorbs and swells and gets thicker and thicker. It traps and it holds. It expands with the holding of all that is wrong.
In my bi-polar world, there isn’t a lot of nice that is mine to own. I only get to borrow the nice things, the nice thoughts, and the nice feelings. They don’t last. They don’t get to stick around very long because they aren’t really mine. The nice things belong to others because I always have to fight for them. I have to justify having them. I have to convince myself (others?) that I am worth them. And just the fact that I have to fight for nice, beg for it, plead for nice, cry for nice, makes nice almost unattainable.
I am bi-polar.
For as long as I can remember, I have known that most of the things that have happened around me (to me?) are my fault. That somehow, the actions of others, the consequences of those actions, the responsibility of those actions, are mine. I don’t have to do anything, I don’t even have to be there, I just have to know about it and I own the guilt. Funny, I don’t own the credit when it’s a good thing that results from actions of others. That would be nice!
I replay, over and over and over, an event until I know that it isn’t really my fault, but it is. I know that people tell me that I am assuming the guilt (faults) of others, but I never get to believe that. I can have the assurance that others know that I am not at fault, but somehow that doesn’t matter. I hear them – I just don’t believe them. I know that I am to blame.
This is like hitting your head against a wall until your head just explodes. My head implodes. My heart aches with the sadness that my head is feeling. There is never enough balance between the two to make me know that I am ok. There is never enough assurance that others know that I am ok. Because I’m not. I’m not ok.
When I took the medication, it was worse. A whole lot worse. I wasn’t me; I wasn’t anything but raw, heavyweight emotion. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t reason, I couldn’t cope. It was the meds at work against each other and I could not separate myself from them; at least until I was able to stop, to wean myself from the meds, from the emotionally roller coaster that the meds made me feel like I was always on. That roller coaster was like being me in super motion!
When I am in an “episode” (a manic state, I call it), I don’t really look different unless you know my face. It isn’t a different smile, but a smile with no meaning. A smile that isn’t true. And if you know me, you would know that my smile wasn’t really a smile at all but a facial expression for the rest of the world. I know that smile. I have looked at it in the mirror of my heart and have known that I wasn’t smiling inside.
I am sad a lot. But usually it is a sadness that I can and do handle. Most people, even family, can’t tell. I have learned how to hide it well. I can laugh, I can joke, I can keep up the appearances, but I can’t do it inside. When it gets too much, I can take a pill that will give me some relief. It doesn’t solve my problems but it gives me the chance to solve my problems by giving me a chance to breathe the air that is mine. I can’t take it all the time because I don’t trust the pills anymore. Not after what was done to me with meds in the beginning.
So let me try to explain. I can do that by giving examples. This is not meant to place blame, it is meant to show you (me?) the way that I become, the way that I am. (I could use your help, you know?)
When someone does something wrong to me, I will allow them to convince me that what they did wrong was my fault. That I caused it to happen. That I made it happen. That I was only worth that event. That I was only worth that outcome. How do you explain that so that it makes sense to the outside? You don’t. You just know it inside. And inside is what really counts when you are bi-polar.
My mind is blank with blackness that is movement. It pulses, it moves, it squeezes, it pushes, it pulls. It is thick and sticky. It’s pliable like gum that loses its taste. It sticks to every thought, every feeling. Or rather, every thought, every feeling sticks to that blackness that just swells with the holding of all that I have done wrong. It is not a nice deep black that shines. It is a blackness that absorbs and swells and gets thicker and thicker. It traps and it holds. It expands with the holding of all that is wrong.
In my bi-polar world, there isn’t a lot of nice that is mine to own. I only get to borrow the nice things, the nice thoughts, and the nice feelings. They don’t last. They don’t get to stick around very long because they aren’t really mine. The nice things belong to others because I always have to fight for them. I have to justify having them. I have to convince myself (others?) that I am worth them. And just the fact that I have to fight for nice, beg for it, plead for nice, cry for nice, makes nice almost unattainable.
I am bi-polar.

