Author: Bipolar Happens

Psych central from both sides of the couch

🖤Earliest childhood memory🖤 Day 4 (parents should have a fund for therapy instead of college)

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My earliest childhood memory: I have quite a few.

The first one was when I was about 3 or 4 and I had one of those blow up punching bags that looked like a clown. I was outside playing with it and my mom told me to be careful since we were playing with the water hose and not to bring it back in the house, but I didn’t listen and I tried to walk up the small metal black steps and fell down popping my punching bag. I cried so hard but my dad bought me a new one.

When I was about 5 and my granny and granddaddy took me to the circus at a local gym area and we were riding back in their old box Chevy when “Black Velvet” came on and I remember falling in love with it. I sang it on the way back home and when we got back my sister told on me and I was told that was a bad song and I shouldn’t listen to it because I didn’t understand the lyrics.

Then there are the memories of people passing away. There was this doorway between the kitchen and living room in the mobile home I grew up in and I remember when family members would go to the hospital and my mom would rush in the doorway stand there and let out an exacerbated sigh. We knew what it meant. I saw so much death growing up it became a normal part of my life. When my dad died my mom had some neighbors pick us up from school they were watching “White men cant jump.” (I still can’t watch it) and playing Sonic 3. My mom called and told them to bring us home. My dad had an accident at work and he was supposed to come home that day, but when I ran in the house the hospital bed was empty and my mom was crying. I didn’t really cry instead I got peroxide for a splinter in my finger. I’ve never accepted death well.

I realize my childhood memories aren’t exciting but rather sad.

I have other ones of playgrounds black swings that were so hot it would burn the back of your legs, metal slides, sports, fires metal buckets cut in half, roasting marshmallows, my granny (even when her alcoholism got bad) picking from the garden, chasing my cousin down with the water hose, stealing matches and setting things on fire. My family was a bit fucked up (everyone has those stories) alcoholics, drug addicts, abuse, custody fights. You know the normal shit you grow up to tell your therapist.

Amy Bleuel (the founder of the semicolon project) is my hero

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https://projectsemicolon.com/about-project-semicolon/

Thank you Amy for everything you did. I have 4 semicolons and your project and strength are an inspiration.

Project Semicolon was founded by Amy Bleuel in 2013, as a tribute to her father, who died by suicide in 2003. She was a Christian

Amy Bleuel

Bleuel lived in Wisconsin. After her parents divorced, Bleuel chose to live with her father and his second wife at the age of 6. Since then, Bleuel endured being physically abused by her stepmother. At the age of 8, she was taken into state custody by a child protective service. Bleuel began self-harming and attempting to kill herself after she had been sexually abused at the age of 10, and raped at 13. At the age of 18, Bleuel’s father died from suicide, and she was subsequently released from the system. In her early years in college, Bleuel was raped twice and suffered a miscarriage.Bleuel suffered from alcoholism at the age of 30 and had five major suicidal attempts.

Bleuel died on March 23, 2017, aged 31; the cause of death was ruled as suicide. She was romantically involved with her partner David.

Thank you to the Project Semicolon community for your amazing support. Today, although sad, we’re reminded of the reason why Project Semicolon exist. Suicide has the ability to strike at the heart of the very cause that aims to eliminate it. Today we lost a giant and from this day on, together, we’ll carry her legacy forward.

CEO – Michael Shields

–

After overcoming many obstacles in her life including bullying, rejection, suicide, self-injury, addiction, abuse and even rape, Amy has found strength and a love for others. Amy struggled with mental illness for 20+ years and has experienced many stigmas associated with it. She now shares her stories around the nation giving hope to others struggling with mental illness.

“Despite the wounds of a dark past I was able to rise from the ashes, proving that the best is yet to come. When my life was filled with the pain of rejection, bullying, suicide, self-injury, addiction, abuse and even rape, I kept on fighting. I didn’t have a lot of people in my corner, but the ones I did have kept me going. In my 20 years of personally struggling with mental health I experienced many stigmas associated with it. Through the pain came inspiration and a deeper love for others. God wants us to love one another despite the label we wear. I do pray my story inspires others. Please remember there is hope for a better tomorrow.” – Amy Bleuel

Bad Mom – my poem about my relationship with my daughter.

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I watched a video of my daughter when she was just 5 years old carrying an oversized black backpack walking into school by herself for the first time. This may not seem like a big accomplishment to some but for her it was one of the proudest moments in her life.

I watch the video proud and ashamed. Proud that at just 5 years old she could accomplish such an enormous task, but I still fight to get out of bed I know it sounds cliche See I have bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, severe generalized anxiety and issues with psychosis.

So for me some days getting out of bed is my biggest accomplishment and I know she sees it. I know that even through heavy wooded closed doors she can hear me fight with her daddy about the bottle of pills I can’t let go of because in my mind being dead is more useful to her than being alive.

I know that in her eleven years on this earth she’s seen me go to a psychiatric hospital, overdose on pills more times than I count, has a shotgun temper breaking windows and doors out of anger and do things I can’t always remember, but I always remember her crying and saying, “Mama please don’t leave.” Every time I storm out of the house after screaming about something as simple as not being able to find the remote and I know I sometimes I can’t help it, I try to control it or maybe I could control it if I try harder. It is so frustrating after years of therapy and medication still never knowing what could possible trigger it knowing I will never be that Mom who is always comforting because I can’t comprehend your emotions. I can’t just be happy or sad or neutral. It is always one extreme or the other or a mindless zombie from the 1200 mg of medication I take everyday just to function. I am sorry Cami. I’m sorry that I possibly have you the same demon that haunts me. I’m sorry I get so mad at you for no reason, that you can’t go to school and tell your friends anything besides you worry about me all the time. I’m sorry this disease has made me so selfish that I take time from you. That I can’t remember when you took your first steps or your first words, but I remember that time I overdosed on Xanax in the bathtub. I’m sorry I’m not a good mom. Your daddy tells me I’m a good mom, but I think he doesn’t want me to hurt more, because I’m not a good mom. I’m selfish, distant, angry, isolated. I keep our relationship at a distance so I don’t hurt or disappoint you. I’m sorry that my illness has become a normal part of your life and I tried not to cry the day your daddy got my medicine and you said, “I don’t want to be like you and take medication for the rest of my life.” It hurt because I don’t want you to be like me either but how do I explain that to you. I’m not always strong enough to fight the courage to put the bottle of pills down. That your memories may consist of that was the time my mom tried to kill herself, rushed to her doctor, fought with my daddy because she couldn’t control her emotions. She ruined holidays, birthdays because of something so small I can’t even remember why but I know she loves me even though she is selfish, isolated, distant and angry she loves me. That you knowing I love you even though I don’t know how to show it is the one thing you remember most about me and I tried to be a good mom.

🖤

This is why people don’t take mental health seriously. Anxiety isn’t a fucking choice.

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*I realize I may lose or gain subscribers for this post, but it is for the greater good of mental health this is said*

I caught the end of the segment but she said her anxiety was so bad she contemplated suicide and my heart broke and thought how brave she was to tell her story and then she said it. “I didn’t want to take pills for the rest of my life so I medicated and found what inside myself was causing the problem and then I stopped eating sugar for 3 months and I was better.” There are some people who can go without taking meds for their illness and I think it’s awesome but to make it sound like anxiety is a state of mind pisses me off. Your “emotional moment” that you used to gain views that magically disappeared makes me dislike you more. We all can’t be famous and have all of this time and money to magically become healed. If you want to talk about mental health let’s be completely fucking honest.

This is when the shit hits the fan. Anxiety induced dreams

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So I don’t know if I was asleep or awake last night, but all I saw was a sea of people with purple faces until they ripped their faces off and held me down in the water trying to get me to deny Jesus. Then everything went quite and the man beside my bed whispered, “I’m back.”

The next thing I know I’m in a tornado trying to grab on to anything that comes in my path but everything just slips my grip as I’m pelted over and over again, but their are no cuts and bruises just gaping holes across my chest and feet. I tried to catch my breath but each time I did I was drowning in a sea blood until the bitter blackness sweeps me away and my mouth becomes a desert that I can’t escape gasping for water until a waterfall falls on me and I can’t breathe again my hand raised above my head again grasping for anything trying to hold my head above water but being sucked down by a hurricane into a black hole and then the man beside my bed whispered, “Are you having fun yet?”

Finally my eyes opened and I couldn’t breathe my chest pounding too scared to get out of bed because what if this is part of his plan and I was dreaming? What is a dream and a reality becomes a 20 question game in my mind. My lip and cheek will start to bleed soon I’m biting for comfort and hope that I’m in reality and the tornado that has just started won’t come around again and start all over. That today I can concentrate at work with visions of ripped off faces in my head. when I tell people I’m not well they don’t understand what this means. This means that I was okay but now I’m not, this means calling the doctor and praying he doesn’t put me back in but instead adjusts my antipsychotic again. This means hoping that the darkness he has created around me doesn’t convince me to slit my wrist, OD on pills, sadly this is my reality until it passes again.

🖤

The long awaited final part of Bipolar Outcast booty juiced filled 72 hour involuntary psych hold.

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So as I’ve promised here is the conclusion to my 72 hour psych hold.

I lunged forward my clothes soaked I sweat my eyes adjust to the darkness as I look around trying to familiarize with my surroundings, my roommates snores are rumbling through the room and as I mentioned before the room is at 80 degrees. Her snores are almost deafening. I couldn’t sleep much anyway even with the klonopin and other sleep meds all I could think about was my daughter and my husband. My room is a small 6×8 room it was covered in ugly paneling, stained white tiles covering the floor. There are two twin size beds with plastic mattresses and pillows beside them is a small particle board dresser with two deep drawers, a sink and mirror jammed in the corner. We have one plastic window with a taupe roller shade that I am not allowed to open because it sends my roommate into fits. I figured while she was sleeping I could change the thermostat so I wouldn’t die of heat exhaustion (that is a bit of exaggeration.) I get up to go to the bathroom knowing room checks are coming soon and even though I am more relaxed all I want to do is talk to my husband. When the nurse comes in she is a little less of a bitch and tells me that they are turning the phone on before breakfast and she will make sure I get to use it, but I need to go back to bed to sleep so we don’t have another incident like yesterday. That made a world of difference and I was able to sleep.

As soon as they come in to wake us up I dart out of the room and straight to the phone. I think everyone knew about yesterday because no one got in my way. The second I heard my husbands voice I broke down. I gave him my patient number so if he needed to call they would know who he is calling for. I also got to tell my daughter good morning which made my day better. I think the nurses were hoping this would keep me out of trouble…..

After breakfast we went back to group therapy where we did more worksheets on how to handle stress (I still have them) and during break the drama lady got back on the phone. (She had a sheet of paper with numbers listed.) We did get the TV remote and watched part of “Bridge to Terabithia ” (I watch it every year on this day.) after this I slept through the majority of group therapy and after my spectacle they stopped trying to wake me up and let me sleep. I told them that either way I was going to sleep so it’s best to not fight it. We went to an activities class and played basketball then we made bracelets. I saw my fucktard doctor again who after I explained I was sleeping all day upped my fucking klonopin to .5 and had me take them twice a day instead of once day. That is how you stop someone from sleeping all day give them more benzos. This time he talked to me for 10 whole minutes and changed his mind again and deter,i Ed that I was in fact bipolar. He is still a fucktard who said antidepressants would be just as effective as mood stabilizers. So off I go again he upped my Lexapro and Klonopin even though it takes time for antidepressant to get in your system upping them was the right fucking idea. I called him a douchebag amongst other things. I had to fight to see him and that meant the constant threat of booty juice because he was too fucking important to see his patients and he took days off during the week without any referral to someone else while I was fucking stuck in there. I watched people go home everyday two or three people were going home and my anger kept getting worse. I was arguing and being combative with the staff when I wasn’t sleeping because I wanted to fucking go home. In this time no matter how many times I asked no one would/could tell me exactly what I did to get in there. When the candy cart came around the nurse would distribute pills she always checked your cheeks to make sure you weren’t checking them for suicidal reasons or as currency for cigarettes. I finally was taken off suicide watch (which until I was off I didn’t know I was on). We were in activities (by the way the counselor we had was the nicest and the only qualified person there.) turned on some music and told us to put our heads down and listen to the guitar instrumental he started talking about our family and friends the more he talked the more my mind cleared I thought about that day when they left me and I fell apart. For the first time since I’d been there I felt the pain in me I stopped being so angry and was ready to heal some. I also figured out this point how to figure out how to bullshit people enough to get the fuck out of there. I participated in all the group therapy started filling out the worksheets and finally the fucktard psychiatrist came to his senses and freed me from the horrid hellhole they locked me in. I remember seeing my husband shoes when I came out the door and my daughter yell mama. I was wearing green sweatpants a holy orange shirt I needed a shower a brush and food!!!!

My story from this point forward only gets more fucked up but this is how my mental health story began.

Day 3- The meaning behind Bipolar Outcasts

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I live in the Bible Belt a small southern town filled with Baptist, Methodist and Presbyterian churches. We ourselves are Baptists, but as I mentioned in the previous post we are extremely progressive. I did go to seminary for awhile and as much as I love God and his words it just wasn’t something that was meant for me. I do enjoy theology and learning about all different types of religion. I believe there are many paths to God so I am a bit alone in my beliefs. I openly support so many things that by my faith standards are unorthodox. I openly support gay marriage, believe strongly there is a gray area in abortions, and find my illness is not a sign of the devil inside me. We were taught at an early age that we don’t air our dirty laundry because of what the neighbors would think. It is a fucked up version of keeping up with The Jones. I tell you all of this for a reason, I by definition of everyone in my small town is an outcast. My husband being a deacon at the church and part of our city council has a strong appearance in the community so every time there is a function of any kind and pop up with my tattoos people stare, they are polite in my face and speak with me even when they don’t know what to say. I openly talk about my illness on my personal social media and don’t understand the problem with openly discussing my illness. If I had any other disease people would wear pins, have a ton of copy and share post (even if I despise them) but all I get are awkward stares and uncomfortable conversations to be polite. Fuck being polite I would much rather you just stay the fuck away from me. I am an outcast because I choose to be. My husband is my biggest fan and that to me is all that matters. He tells people about my crusade to bring suicide awareness, end the stigma on mental health, to make small town America more open to people like me. I want to change the world, but at the same time never lose the weird outcast I am because then I would no longer be me. I am a bipolar outcast.

🖤 20 fun facts about the bipolar outcast 🖤 DAY 2

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🖤 I love deli meat more specifically Italian deli meat. I eat it straight out of the bag no bread needed.

🖤 I can watch every episode of Family Guy and The Simpsons repeatedly

🖤 I have a partial dentures (Blog topic)

🖤 People call me a human phone book (I memorize numbers easily)

🖤 I’ve had over 10 jobs most were big box retailers and a bank

🖤 I look like a large mouth bass when I sleep

🖤 I snore so loudly I can shake walls

🖤 I wipe my drink cans twice before I open it and still don’t open it completely

🖤 I don’t reheat leftovers

🖤 My best friend (who has a diagnosis like me) lives over 600 miles away and we’ve never met before. She saved my life and I call her Tater. ( don’t know where it came from.)

🖤 I am a Christian. My husband is a deacon at our church. We are extremely progressive in our beliefs.

🖤I have 8 tattoos and have sketched out the rest (blog post)

🖤 My moods have names.

🖤 I love to walk but not at the gym because I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel

🖤 My dr is currently in the process to try and stop my dreaming (my request)

🖤 My previous doctor threatened me many times with ECT.

🖤 My dream vacation is going to New York.

🖤 I don’t like politics AT ALL! My husband loves it so I take short naps in the middle of conversations.

🖤 I’ve gone more than 4.5 days without sleep

🖤 Amazon is my best friend

That was hard to do!

31 day blog challenge because being a dork is awesome! The introduction!

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Today is the first day so it is my introduction.

I am also positive if you’ve read any of my blogs you know a good deal about me. I am 34 years old and I have bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, severe generalized anxiety and issues with psychosis. I’m happily married to my husband for 10 years and we’ve been together for 18. (He proposed to me at our high school graduation.) I have a daughter who is 11 years old

I have a ton of hilarious stories about my illness and other fun topics I’ve not even started on. I’m sure you’ve seen my piece of paper with blog topics and I keep adding to it. I love writing and this blog is probably the most terrifying and rewarding accomplishments. This is kind of boring compared to my other quirky post. I have so much stuff to write about it. It’s going to be a crazy fun ride and I can’t wait to see where this blog takes me.

-Part 3 will hit by 8pm EST –

18 years with my hubby!!!

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Wayne,

We’ve been through a lot in the last eighteen years, but no matter what you fought for me. You fought for our relationship when I didn’t know how. You fought for my life when I couldn’t. You gave up part of your life for me and every time I asked you why you always said it is because I love you and I could never understand how or why that was ever enough to deal with someone who kept making the same mistakes who didn’t want help who gave up on everything and thought their existence was a burden, but you held my hand, and I know there were so many times you held your breath every time the phone rang hoping it wouldn’t be that call. I never understood that love until we lost everything and I watch your world fall apart. I understood this love you had for me. I understood what it meant to fight for someone other than myself. I understood how to be selfless and that this love is greater than any darkness we will ever see. For the first time in 5 years I want you to know this time I will be okay. That tomorrow will come and I won’t salivate over pill bottles, look at myself in the mirror and say I’m not worth it because I am and you’ve always made sure I knew it even when I didn’t believe or understand it. I could never have done any of this without you. You are most incredible, stubborn, good looking (with a beard 😂) guy that God made. You are a deacon at our church and you take care of our city. Youve become the man God intended you to be. I love you and to many more years together! I never knew that I would find my soulmate at 16, but couldn’t picture my life without you.

🖤