The other night, my eldest daughter came in to us because she had a nightmare. As usual, she couldn't remember what it was about, but she was visually shaken. And shirtless. When I asked her why she didn't have a shirt on, she couldn't really answer. She had no idea. It wasn't a particularly warm night, but she has been known to tunnel under all her blankets and overheat. So, we did a quick search for her top in and around her bed with no luck. Desperate to get back to sleep (both girls had night issues and I was beyond tired!), I gave up and got her another shirt and helped her back in bed.
The next morning, we were in the kitchen making breakfast when she looked down and exclaimed "I have two pants on!" When I asked her why, she responded "I don't know." Immediately, I knew what had happened and headed for her closet. Sure enough, in her hamper, was her shirt. On the floor was 2 more jammie shirts. When I called her in there and pointed it out, she seemed a bit confused. "I didn't do that."
"Ya, I believe you did hun. I think you were sleep walking."
"I didn't do that!"
"Well, I didn't put 2 pairs of pants on you in the middle of the night."
"Oh, ya. But I didn't put my shirt in there."
"Ya, I think you did."
This was the first time in my daughters life she was utterly speachess. I wish I hadn't been worried and trying to hide so I could have enjoyed the moment. I explained what sleep walking was and how her older brother in Nevada does it form time to time. That seemed to help, but she still seemed a bit freaked out about it. (I was too, to be honest.) While she was at school, she worked through it in her own way. She talked to her classmates. When I picked her up, she came running to me yelling "Maurice does it too!"
"Does what?"
"Sleep walks!"
"He does? You told Maurice?"
"Ya! I told him how I woke up in two pants and how took my shirt off with out knowing it because I slept walked. He said he sleep walks all the time too. He's slept walked to the bathroom before!"
"He did? Wow. So you feel better about it now?"
"Yup."
"Cool."
"I just hope I don't walk up with two pants on again."
Me too.
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To the few regular readers I have and the many lurkers:
Yesterday marked my Mother's 57th year on this planet (how many years she has spent on other planets, she has refused to comment). To celebrate, we all went to Letherby's Family Creamery. We had a modest dinner of sandwiches, soups and salads. And of course, we followed it up with delicious ice cream for dessert.
But that isn't the main point behind this post.
On our way out of said Creamery, my beloved son tripped over a raise in the concrete/his own feet/ air (who really knows) and took a litteral nose dive. Unfortunately, his hands were in his pockets (something his Dad is ALWAYS yelling at him for) so his nose broke his fall. Luckily, it did not break in the process.
As you can see, he is all too proud about his battle scar.
He cried all of maybe 10 seconds. Long enough for mommy to run over and squish his face in her boobs with a knee-jerk reaction. (I hope that stops soon. Would be quite embarassing if I did that when he was a teen. For him I mean.) After that, he straightened up and pulled the strong "I'm alright Mom" routine. Hrump. Let me coddle ya for more than a few fleeting seconds will ya?!? *sheesh* When we got home, he got an "Obi Wan" bandaide, which made him feel tuff and he started walking around with aire about him, like he had won some sort of battle. This morning, he ditched the bandaide and refused another. On the playground, he soaked up the attention as he answered inquiries like "What happened to your FACE?!?" with a sense of pride. One answer was quite simple: "I fell on the ground like THIS!" followed by sound affects and ninja like moves.
My kid is all kinds of hero crazy. I love him. Hope he doesn't scar.
My last post Coming Out, was inspired by postings by Jenny the Bloggess ( a normally very funny, but sometimes very down to earth blogger) and a very moving video by another amazing blogger, Michael Kimber. I concentrated on Michael's plea to "Come Out" and help break the stigma behind mental illnesses, something I feel very strong about. This post, I feel the strong need to focus on the story behind Jenny's post. The story of yet another blogger named Lori. A courageous woman currently in the midst of what she calls her own personal nightmare come true: the aftermath of her husbands suicide.
I didn't dive into this in my last post, because I wanted to focus on the stigma. And, too be honest, I didn't even read Lori's posts until today. Too close to home. Didn't want to face what I could have done to my family had any of my attempts ever been successful. However, I had read in other posts about her blog; that it was real raw emotion. I even read that some had talked crap about her and put her down for posting them where others could see, including her kids. While I was sure I wouldn't side with the ignorant jerks who saw it best to kick her while she was down, I wasn't sure how the posts would make me feel about my personal crap, so I chose to stay away. Today, I felt compelled to read them. I'm glad I did.
Yes, her emotions are raw. Yes, her language is rough. Who's wouldn't be after such a traumatic loss? But the message, and the emotions surrounding it, are important! It's a message not often shared. And when shared, not nearly enough. Why should something like this be shared? You always hear that suicide is not the answer and all it does is make things worse. That statement, while true, is vague and not at all enough to stop someone from thinking that the world we be a better place if they weren't in it. The aftermath of suicide is ugly. An ugly some people need to know about in order to further dismiss it as a personal option. Lori's blog entries are raw and real. Posting them helps her cope with it all. It also helps others, like myself, fight our inner demons and realize what they are capable of doing. More importantly, her blog encourages those who feel like they are losing the battle to speak up, reach out and get help.
So please, if you have ever contemplated taking your life, read her blog. Put things into prospective. Mental illness is not something you can suffer through with out affecting others. Don't be foolish in thinking you can just "handle it". Even the strongest and wisest have battled with depression and lost. There is no shame in asking for help. It takes a very strong person to speak up. And in doing so, you won't be just saving your life. You'll be saving the lives of those you love and those who love you.
The Bloggess said in her post "Your friends and family want you…broken or not." I agree wholeheartedly. Damaged is far better than dead.
You read that right. I'm coming out. I am joining the movement. I have been out for the most part, but now it is time to jump out and slam the door shut behind me!
I am Tracey and I am Bipolar.
I flinch when I say that out loud because those who hear me tend to jump to their own conclusions as to what that means. Some assume it means I'm insane, schizo, psychotic, dangerous... even contagious. Some become "sympathetic" and treat me like I'm either fragile or special needs. I have even come across those who act as if I am full of crap, doing it for attention or just a bored SAHM riding the diagnosis of the month. They assume this not because of my actions or rumors to my past. No, they based them solely on the heinous stigma that surrounds mental illness as a whole. A stigma I have battled against for the better part of my life. For this reason alone, I have kept "in the closet" about this very important part of myself.
But no longer.
I was diagnosed at 19. My story neither begins there, nor ends. But it almost did.
I had already figured out I was Bipolar. Not by a treatment center or a doctor or even an online search (such things were unheard of for the most part back then). It was in my first year of Jr. College. I had just stormed out of my Intro to Business class because I arrived too late to take a test and I completely lost it. I was directed to speak with my college counselor who just happened to run a "Bipolar/Unipolar" support group on campus. I attended one meeting and immediately knew the answer to the question I didn't even realize I had been asking myself for years.
"Why am I so damn different?"
Finding out the answer was an indescribable moment in my life that I will never forget. It was right up there with losing my virginity.... strike that. Better. However, knowing wasn't enough to save me from the self destructive ticking time bomb that had already been set to go off deep within. I attempted suicide twice before I was hospitalized, put on meds and then... finally... diagnosed.
Looking back at my childhood, I can see things that should have been obvious signs. Two things kept my family from properly seeing them. One: Most of them were Bipolar. Two: None of them knew it!! Yep. I was the first of my family to be diagnosed. Unfortunately, the diagnosis came too late for 2 of my relatives who were too far gone and sadly, took their own lives. (Although, in both cases, whether it was an accident or by their own choice is still up for debate by some.)
Those same things I saw in myself as a child, I now see in my daughter. At first, it scared me. Then I realized it didn't have to be scary! Sure it was scary for ME! I was CLUELESS!! She doesn't need to be! It took me years to figure it all out because I had to do it all on my own in a time when people were still being locked away for months even years! Just NOW, they are starting to recognize Bipolar Disorder as a pediatric issue. They are realizing that not all those bouncy kids are suffering from ADHD. Some are Bipolar. Treatments are changing. For the better.
With all this change, shouldn't the stigma change too?
All mental illnesses are REAL ILLNESSES. REAL DISORDERS. They are NOT however, defining.
I struggle with my illness. I live my life in spite of my illness. In order to do so, I embrace my illness.
I am Tracey. I am Bipolar. I am also a daughter, a sister and spouse. I am doting mother and aunt. I am a teacher, a caregiver, an entrepreneur and a bookkeeper. I am creative and open minded. I am supportive and caring. I am funny. I am loving. I am fun loving and wise. I'm a singer and a dancer. I am a jokester and silly. I'm encouraging and courageous. Above all, I am hopeful and sincere.
If you have been hiding, I ask that you join me and come out. Like I said, it's a movement. Well actually, its a campaign. Started by this guy: Michael Kimber. He's also on FaceBook. I learned of Michael and his Coming Out of the Crazy Closet Campaign, through Jenny the Bloggess. She too "Came Out" recently on her blog and asked others "Speak Up!"
So please. Join us. Come out. Speak up. Help us fight the stigma that has held us captive in our silence for far too long.
I have been overwhelmingly tired here as of late. (I know I'm not pregnant again, so don't ask.) It seems I am constantly yawning, yearing for coffee and struggling to stay vertical. It could be many things. I have mild/borderline moderate Anemia. My baby is 6 months old, growing and constantly wanting to nurse. She doesn't sleep through the night yet. My son has been up coughing and choking on mucus in the middle of the night quite a bit here as of late. I also have a mild form of SAD and this weather is NOT helping. Then, as a cherry on top of my hot mess of a sundae, I am under a shit load of stress. Multiple causes. I'm trying to let most of them slide ad not worry about them. However, when some are all up in your face, it's hard to ignore them! Like my Father and brothers here for the holidays. I swear, they leave and my shoulders finally relax 2 days later. Then I find myself sleeping their visit off over the course of several days. So, ya... the causes of my lethargy are a plenty.
But some days, lazy takes over. I get a rush of energy and I clean... the kids room. Who gives a flip about the kids room when the front of the house looks like a bomb hit! ME apparently! I'll spend hours .... HOURS!!... putting all their freakin' toys in the right place. Then I walk into the front and find myself waving my hands in disgust, *pshaw*-ing, and walking back into my bedroom to hide... only after stopping to view and taking comfort in how clean the kids room. A sense of accomplishmet maybe? A cleaning "Patch" per se? I don't know.
On a not so tired moment. Notice the newly cleaned and stacked diapers... and the Starbucks? Ya, that was a productive day. ;0)
I've been napping and drinking coffee. Nothing helps. Hell, the coffee probably makes the Anemia worse! Atleast that's what the website I linked to above says. Great. No wonder I feel more tired after a cup of Joe. So much for helping me with a boost of caffiene! Blech. Probably undoes the iron pills I've been slammin' every day.
I can't win. I want the sun back. And my nightly sleep. But that means my infant not being an infant anymore. Well, that sucks!
