Diary from 11/13, the beginning
So, this is the beginning. Yet, the beginning seems to come somewhere in the middle, or maybe at the end, of my story. This will be the way my tale unfolds. My journey is going to be haphazard, at best. As I try to put my story into some kind of order, I realize that somehow, the years have turned and folded back onto themselves so many times that the concept of ‘time’ itself now becomes irreverent. Sometimes I pick up a thread of a story, only to lose it as it becomes enmeshed and tangled with all the other memories I keep locked away. So, to say I am standing at the threshold of the beginning may be a bit over simplified, but it is a start.
Today was the first day with the new therapist. Funny, he said I was fairly insightful into my ghosts and issues, and that I should wade out of these murky waters fairly quickly. I had to smile a bit. After all, if someone has a good idea on how to manage the chaos of life, they are normally not the kind to find their way into the office of a psychologist. But on the upside, I guess it is good to know that I am well adjusted for a crazy person.
Here I am, writing to myself, and yet I cannot seem to get the words in the correct order. Everything seems so easy while sitting in the therapist’s office, and then when you are left on your own at home, it becomes hazy. I was told to ‘learn to be more open’. What a simple, easy idea. What a foolish therapist. Hmm, so learn to open up… My first response, is ‘why’? How would any good come out of bearing my soul to everyone I know? Really, the idea is quite silly to me. How would the ghosts of my past have any measures on the lives of others? But, yet I begin today. I begin on a path that causes me to chuckle. I feel silly for talking to myself as I write. Silly for assuming my words would have any effect on others anyway. But, still… I begin.
The Beginning
Mental Illness. Bi polar. Mania and Depression. These are new words I am adding to my vocabulary. This is my journey, and it is a simple affair. I am not a medical professional, I have no training in psychology, and I do not possess any deep insights into the human psyche. I am just me. A woman who always thought knew that my life had spiraled out of control. Yes, I knew the normal person did not deal with what I did. The normal woman did not face each day with a nameless fear and dread. It is impossible to decide when your life fails in comparison to ‘normal’ when you have no clue exactly what normal is. My life was in shambles, which I knew. What I never understood was the ‘why’.
So, I invite you to come with me. Wade through the shadows, the pain, and the voices of my past as they echo to me. This is a journey I start blindly. I have no idea what I will find as I begin to pull back the memories. I am terrified about what I will find, and terrified that I will find nothing at all. Yes, a contradiction in terms but let me explain. I have just been told about the bipolar condition of my mother and my brother. I received the diagnosis that I have Post Traumatic Stress. So, on one hand, I may have the answer to the ghosts that haunt me. But there is another part that fights the counseling and treatment. What if, the doctors find there is nothing wrong, and I am just a nutcase? I am excited for the answers, but afraid that the answers will not enough to bring me peace.
I will start somewhere closer to the beginning. When I was younger, my brother was diagnosed bi-polar. My family did our best to wade through the illness, but my brother refused to admit he had a problem and refused medication. I knew my family was dysfunctional, but I did not have the tools to figure out exactly where the dysfunction was. My brother found a great cure for his illness in the shell of a .357 hand gun at the beginning of the year. So, yes, my life is in shambles. I lost my only sibling, and my mother? Well, I just thought she was temperamental, and hard to manage. I was wrong.
My mother was misdiagnosed with insomnia about 16 years ago, and put on a psychotropic drug for it. What a surprise, her insomnia treatment masked the fact that she was severely bi-polar. Earlier this year, she decided to wean herself off the ‘insomnia’ meds as she was ready to retire. If she was sleepy, she figured she would take a nap.
It was about six months of pure hell before the diagnosis came. My mother figured she was addicted to the sleeping pills. Of course, all the behaviors of the mania would easily be described as withdrawals. So the guesswork began. The first script for the withdrawals, the second script for the nausea… The tremors and night sweats will fade, but here is something in the meantime… Headaches, here is a pill for that. Anxiety, got you covered… I quickly lost count as the pills began to grow. As soon as I learned to pronounce one med, they would change it to another. She was ‘addicted’ to this, ‘addicted’ to that… The drugs that were tried, or switched, or tapered, read like a pharmaceutical shopping list. And still, there were no answers.
No one thought that maybe the behaviors and symptoms were not a result of stopping an insomnia drug that she had been prescribed, but something so much more serious. When the delusions began, I knew there was something wrong. Then the paranoia, illusions, and the complete break from reality came. Towards the end, she began talking a lot to my father. She would jump when he called me, because she was worried I was telling him ‘things.’ He was always angry with her, and he was spending a lot of time at my home. She would call me, and beg for me to intervene with Dad. All of this sounds like a loving wife, desperate to hold on to her marriage, except for one small technicality. My father has been dead for about two years now.
It all came to a head when I received a call from the sheriff’s office. She had gotten into quite an argument with my father in the waiting room of a clinic. Except, there was no one there, she was screaming at her delusion of my father. Needless to say, I had no choice to check her into the behavioral hospital. That has by far been the hardest thing I have done. As I fell sobbing in the reception area of the hospital, one of the counselors sought me out. He told me I should try writing, to get the jumbled mess of ideas on paper. So, this is my attempt. We will see just where it takes me.
Mental Illness. Bi polar. Mania and Depression. These are new words I am adding to my vocabulary. This is my journey, and it is a simple affair. I am not a medical professional, I have no training in psychology, and I do not possess any deep insights into the human psyche. I am just me. A woman who always thought knew that my life had spiraled out of control. Yes, I knew the normal person did not deal with what I did. The normal woman did not face each day with a nameless fear and dread. It is impossible to decide when your life fails in comparison to ‘normal’ when you have no clue exactly what normal is. My life was in shambles, which I knew. What I never understood was the ‘why’.
So, I invite you to come with me. Wade through the shadows, the pain, and the voices of my past as they echo to me. This is a journey I start blindly. I have no idea what I will find as I begin to pull back the memories. I am terrified about what I will find, and terrified that I will find nothing at all. Yes, a contradiction in terms but let me explain. I have just been told about the bipolar condition of my mother and my brother. I received the diagnosis that I have Post Traumatic Stress. So, on one hand, I may have the answer to the ghosts that haunt me. But there is another part that fights the counseling and treatment. What if, the doctors find there is nothing wrong, and I am just a nutcase? I am excited for the answers, but afraid that the answers will not enough to bring me peace.
I will start somewhere closer to the beginning. When I was younger, my brother was diagnosed bi-polar. My family did our best to wade through the illness, but my brother refused to admit he had a problem and refused medication. I knew my family was dysfunctional, but I did not have the tools to figure out exactly where the dysfunction was. My brother found a great cure for his illness in the shell of a .357 hand gun at the beginning of the year. So, yes, my life is in shambles. I lost my only sibling, and my mother? Well, I just thought she was temperamental, and hard to manage. I was wrong.
My mother was misdiagnosed with insomnia about 16 years ago, and put on a psychotropic drug for it. What a surprise, her insomnia treatment masked the fact that she was severely bi-polar. Earlier this year, she decided to wean herself off the ‘insomnia’ meds as she was ready to retire. If she was sleepy, she figured she would take a nap.
It was about six months of pure hell before the diagnosis came. My mother figured she was addicted to the sleeping pills. Of course, all the behaviors of the mania would easily be described as withdrawals. So the guesswork began. The first script for the withdrawals, the second script for the nausea… The tremors and night sweats will fade, but here is something in the meantime… Headaches, here is a pill for that. Anxiety, got you covered… I quickly lost count as the pills began to grow. As soon as I learned to pronounce one med, they would change it to another. She was ‘addicted’ to this, ‘addicted’ to that… The drugs that were tried, or switched, or tapered, read like a pharmaceutical shopping list. And still, there were no answers.
No one thought that maybe the behaviors and symptoms were not a result of stopping an insomnia drug that she had been prescribed, but something so much more serious. When the delusions began, I knew there was something wrong. Then the paranoia, illusions, and the complete break from reality came. Towards the end, she began talking a lot to my father. She would jump when he called me, because she was worried I was telling him ‘things.’ He was always angry with her, and he was spending a lot of time at my home. She would call me, and beg for me to intervene with Dad. All of this sounds like a loving wife, desperate to hold on to her marriage, except for one small technicality. My father has been dead for about two years now.
It all came to a head when I received a call from the sheriff’s office. She had gotten into quite an argument with my father in the waiting room of a clinic. Except, there was no one there, she was screaming at her delusion of my father. Needless to say, I had no choice to check her into the behavioral hospital. That has by far been the hardest thing I have done. As I fell sobbing in the reception area of the hospital, one of the counselors sought me out. He told me I should try writing, to get the jumbled mess of ideas on paper. So, this is my attempt. We will see just where it takes me.
