This is the hardest thing I will ever do in life. It�s not the first time I�ve had to do it. It won�t be the last. It is a battle I will constantly fight, one I cannot afford to lose. Surrender would be so much simpler sometimes. The battle is this, not to fall apart. It sounds so simple. But for someone with bi-polar, when the pieces start to fall apart it really does take everything I have to hold it together. But in the long run, it is easier to hold it together than to try to rebuild later. I had a conversation with Heidi the other day and here�s what I had to say about my life:
(referring to the pain and the major suckfest that has become my life) �It can�t last forever, at least that�s what I tell myself. Then some other piece of bad news arrives, and my whole plan for serenity is derailed and the conductor is thrown on the tracks and run over by the train, while I stare at the carnage my life has become.�
At least in my pain I still have the ability to wax eloquent and use elaborate metaphors. Though I do have a tendency to mix them at times. I started out with the war metaphor, then used a broken pieces metaphor and continued with a train metaphor. I wonder how many others I can use before this entry is over.
I want to explain what it is like to live with bi-polar, with continuing cycles of depression, yet strive to remain a fully functioning adult. At times, it would just be so much easier to surrender, to give up, to stop fighting. This could mean several things. In the extreme, surrender would mean suicide. The ultimate in giving up. The ultimate in Fuck You Life. The ultimate in �my feelings are the only thing that matter�. It�s tempting. But I really think too rationally for this. Because I think about the things I have to resolve before I can die. Like finishing a project for work. Or worrying how my roommates would pay the rent. Or making sure my divorce is final so my life insurance doesn�t end up a big court battle between my family (where it should go) and my husband (who has a legal first claim on it). So because I even care about either of these things, I know I don�t really want to die.
Giving up could also mean quitting my job, going on disability, getting so far down that I can�t pull myself back up. There�s a deep hole there, and it�s so easy to fall into (yet metaphor number 4). And to keep myself from hitting the bottom, I claw and scratch at the sides of the hole, cutting my fingers, ripping off nails. Bruised and bleeding, I cling to the smallest of crevices carved into the sides of the hole. It is hard work. I�m exhausted from it.
What I know is this: The depression will pass. It always does. This one is accompanied by many levels of stressful life events which always makes it worse and much more devastating. It feels like I�ve had a virtual waterfall of bad news raining down on me daily (metaphor number 5, if I get to 10 do I get a prize?). I am pummeled by the onslaught. And after the depression passes, I am left to clean up whatever messes I have created (yes, I do take responsibility for them) during the depression. The less mess I allow, the harder I fight to stay afloat in the sea of desperation (metaphor number 6), the easier it is to clean it up and move onward, to pretend like I am normal.
Right now, I�m trying desperately to resurrect a career from the ashes of a past depression. A depression that I allowed to dominate me. I was unreliable at work. I got nothing accomplished. I missed a lot of work. My reputation was nearly destroyed. I could have been fired except my disease is a protected illness. And I know I am so much better than that. I know that I am one of the top assets my company has. If only. If only. If only I didn�t have these battles to fight (back to the war metaphor� wait, are these metaphors or analogies or does anyone care?). And I�m doing well. And I�m kicking ass. And I�m bringing my career back from the dead. But. But. But. I want to give up. I want to crawl into bed and stay there for days. I want to stop trying, stop fighting, stop everything. Especially when I get my happy meal raise and I feel like no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I fight, it will NEVER be enough.
There�s no pill I can take. There�s no cure. There�s no solution. There�s nothing I can do when I feel like this. No way to make it better instantly. It�s just moment by moment, getting through each day and trying not to make huge mistakes that will screw my life up forever. It�s learning that if I sit at the keyboard and type it all out, I gain some control and don�t do stupid things to hurt myself. It�s learning to let people in, to see the darkness in my soul (can I count that as metaphor/analogy #7?) when I really want to shut everyone out. It�s digging deep inside to try to find some optimism, some hope, some belief that life will eventually have good things to offer me. It�s convincing myself that all of my dreams just MIGHT be waiting around the next corner (metaphor #8), and if I just keep walking, keep fighting, keep living, I might eventually find them.
But then I always come to this: how many times do I have to turn the corner and encounter the monster that waits to devour me (metaphor #9) before I eventually find the good stuff? How many times can I pick myself up? How many battles can I fight? There must be a finite number. Isn�t there always? And when have I reached my limit? Because I feel like I might have reached it. The temptation is so strong. I have to be proud of myself every day I crawl into bed and I don�t surrender. Because it�s strong. It�s stronger than I am, I think. One of these days, I think it�s going to win.
Sometimes when I cry I stop breathing. I feel unable to let the breath out. Like it�s the only way I have any control over the chaos that consumes me. And I hold myself so tightly, clinging to that breath, that sometimes I think I�m going to turn myself inside out. And I think that might make it better. Because our skin is tougher than our soul. It heals quicker from the cuts and bruises. But our souls, they are battered and bruised and I don�t think they ever really heal. Maybe if we flipped inside out, our souls would learn to heal faster, to be stronger, to be more durable. They would learn to build calluses when the friction of life is too much. Because right now, the friction just rubs me raw. I don�t know how to heal, because before I ever have a chance, I get rubbed again.
I know this too: if I lose it this time, if I sink to the bottom of the hole, I won�t have the energy to pull myself back up. Not this time. Not anymore. If I let myself drop to the bottom, I�m going to have to stay there. And I�m not ready for that.
I believe I had my first major depression when I was 15. I was a sophomore in high school. And I just wanted to die. I just wanted to hurt myself. I would find myself wandering around the neighborhood, not knowing what to do with all the energy that boiled within me. I would curl up in my closet and cry. I would curl up on the lawn in the back yard and cry. I remember this feeling of wanting to turn inside out. It started at 15. Since that time, I�ve probably dealt with over 30 major depressive episodes. Some last for months. Some are all consuming but burn out quickly. They may last only a day. But they are powerful. Each one leaves it mark on me. I am 35 years old. I have been dealing with this for 20 years. And I still haven�t figured out a way to deal with it. You�d think with all this experience, I�d have the solution, I�d have the plan. But I don�t. I�m just as ignorant and helpless today as I was at 15.
I need a reason. I need a reason to keep going. I need a belief that tomorrow will be better. I can�t find one right now. I don�t have any that are compelling enough to keep me going. Because I�ve had reasons before. I have had hopes. I�ve had dreams. But they always end up broken on the floor. And when they die, they always take a piece of me with them. So the next time, there�s less of me to fight with. It�s as if we have reservoir of hope, of optimism to sustain us in life. And I keep dipping in the well. And it�s drying up. If we are lucky, we have enough experiences in life to fill the well back up. If we are lucky. Are you one of the lucky ones? I don�t think I am. And I don�t know how to fight it now that my well has gone dry.
So, I stopped counting my metaphors and analogies somewhere in the middle. After all, does it really matter if I use more metaphors than anyone else in the history of diaryland if I can�t find a reason to get out of bed in the morning? The metaphor challenge is not enough. I need something better. And I don�t have it. And I don�t think I ever will. I am damaged goods. I will never be allowed to live in the castle, I will always be the serf toiling outside the castle walls, unprotected from invaders.
