Down in a Hole — Alice in Chains
I have yet to hear one human being utter the words: “I wish I were bipolar.” or “I am envious that you are bipolar.” or “I hope I have a child one day who is bipolar.” or “Wow, you make bipolar look easy and like so much fun.”
There is an excellent reason I have never heard and will never hear those words: living with bipolar disorder SUCKS! Never knowing what will trigger a manic episode, what will trigger a depressive episode, or if there will be any fucking trigger at all. Why do I stay awake for 72 hours straight? Why do I sleep for 72 hours straight? When will the next set of “normal” days happen? Will I be able to accomplish everything that needs to be done in those “normal” days, however long those may last?
I am currently unemployed. I began working at 15. I have always held either a part-time job while in school or a full-time job since graduating from high school. There were 7 years during which I gave birth to two children and divorced their father that I was a stay at home mother. From then on, I have always held a full-time (sometimes a part-time job as well), while raising those children, returning to college, getting my MBA, and entering my chosen career field. All of this while in denial and self medicating my bipolar disorder into oblivion. How the hell I did it is unknown to me.
Maybe I was in a constant state of mania, and the self medicating brought me down to baseline. I do remember falling apart at night when my children were asleep, in the shower, when they were at school, at friends, or when they were with their father. I remember days when I would not get out of bed, unless I had to for work or school. I functioned on some sort of acceptable level of normal. During this time, I was misdiagnosed and on medication for depression. However, I did not devoutly take my medication, and the drugs and alcohol definitely did not help. To the outside world, I was the “life of the party.” The one who “bought the fun.” In reality, I was falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole. Occasionally clawing my way up to the top, only to fall further down from where I started my original assent.
In Lewis Carrol’s Alice in Wonderland, Alice chases a white rabbit down his rabbit hole and embarks on a LSD laced adventure. How this book became a children’s classic is beyond me. The further and further Alice ventures into the rabbit hole, the more and more psychedelic and sadistic her adventure becomes. Honestly, child, stop eating the treats and drinking the potions. This is my bipolar. Where does reality begin and fiction end? Is there really a difference? Are those psychedelic, sadistic adventures reality or dreams? Where did you get those bruises and welts? Did you hurt someone else? Are your children ok; are they even with you or are they away? Are you ok? Are you alive or dead, tucked in a dream? What the fuck is happening?!
This was not an everyday occurrence, thank the gods. Otherwise, I would have willingly checked myself into a mental facility to protect my children from the “other” mommy. These episodes happened enough to spread an unhealthy dose of emotional trauma to my children. “Hello, Mommy Guilt. Make yourself comfortable, have a beer.” My children are grown, and we have had long, emotional discussions about our past. Do you want to know something that amazes me? They don’t remember the details like I do. They remember feeling that something was maybe “off” sometimes, but mostly that I always took care of them, stood by them, showed them the value of hard work, stood up for them, and fought for them. Children are amazing and amazingly resilient. *Mind Blown*
That was the first time I learned about grace and forgiveness… of myself. I was holding in all this guilt and shame and pain. My children hadn’t even thought twice about their childhood. I had to give myself grace and forgiveness. I gave myself permission to let go of the guilt and shame and pain I held for years. This did not happen overnight, and if I'm being honest, sometimes those feelings will resurface. When they do, I allow myself to feel them; I give them the attention they need, and I put them back in their proper space. They don’t belong in my everyday headspace; however, they are part of my journey. They deserve acknowledgement; just not permanent residence.
I still have a metric shit ton of trauma in my headspace that I have yet to unpack and properly place. I have been holding on to it for much longer than it deserves. To me, it is still new, raw, powerful, and I can still feel, see, and hear every single painful detail. These details surface every fucking day, whether in a dream or in my waking mind. Every fucking time, they roundhouse kick the breath out of my body and I want to lie on the floor in the fetal position and cry. Sometimes I sit on the floor of the shower and cry.
I’m stuck. I can’t unpack it. Meanwhile, every other motherfucker involved in the shit show who was a party to this trauma has moved on, happy-go-lucky like nothing ever happened. They go about their normal days, filled with no remorse for their involvement. So I smile, I nod, I mumble something about being fine or okay or just tired, and I function on some sort of acceptable level of normal. I’m not okay; I am fucking exhausted. I’m not sure I will ever be okay; not with this; not with how it all went down and was handled. How do I unpack when I can’t release the resentment, pain, and trauma?
