Dear Ruiner

(A sort of Letter to the Editor, if you will.)

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Dear Ruiner,

I’m aching tonight. I’m tempted to beg of you to cut me some slack. Please, just a break? You’ve had hold of my knees for years. Grinding, little pebbles in my knees. Pain while walking with insides made of gravel.

A while later, you grabbed the ankles. Crack. Super to shop in the shoe departments, and find shoes I like. Gotta buy double, though. Why? Because some days I wear a Size 8, and other days, when my ankles are especially painful and swollen, I upgrade to the same shoes except in a Size 9. On especially fun days, one foot requires the 8 and the other the 9. When I look down, I think of circus clowns. The ones with the sad faces. I’ve always hated clowns. They look demented.

Not so long ago, I began hearing noises come from my shoulders. Crunch. Choosing a blouse in the closet and removing it from the hanger, the pain is not only intense in my shoulders, but added to it?Ā  The action, the movement, to slide the garment off the hanger shoots burning pain down my arms as if lightning had struck my neck and was sending electric currents through my wrists.

And now you attack my hands. Deform. Was it not enough when Fibro-Fog began snatching words here and there and stealing memories? Now you must also charge a hefty price in order to be able to type and share my thoughts, my stories. What a thing to do to a writer. I awake groaning for help. My husband grabs the Vicks or a prescription gel to apply to my hands. We then get the gloves on my hands and wrap them in a heating pad.

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All of that has caused many nights full of tears. All of that has made me sometimes want to hide under blankets all day and cry. I will admit, a few times I’ve almost lost faith, or questioned why this is allowed.

But, we need to clear a few things up, you and I. Let me tell you something. You will not ruin me. You will try, and you will continue to cause me much agony, and I fully believe it will be far, far worse before it is ever better. But you see, I have something you do not. I know where you reside, Ruiner. I know the one you call Master. I know of the darkness and despair. Here is something wonderful that I know. Your black void and even this place is not my home. Earth, this world, it’s not my home. My home is full of light and love. I will feel no pain. I will bask in peace and praise my Savior. I will spend time worshiping, singing, dancing, kneeling – all things you’re robbing me of right now. I’ll get through this, your vile acts against my body and mind, but ultimately, I’ll go on to my true home. My time here is but a blip. I will go on to meet the Creator, and you will remain a slave to something evil and perverse, forever enduring that same pain you inflict upon me.

Go on and give it your best shot!

You. Lose.

Jesus. Wins.

Not Even One

I’m so lonely. I’ve been in this quaint, picturesque, small town for almost three years now.

I do not have one friend.

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It’s not as if in the area back where we lived most of our lives I had dozens of friends I went out with, but I certainly had more than where I am now.

With my physical limitations, being a caretaker to my mom, a parent to a Bipolar teen and wife of a hospice chaplain, I cannot make plans and confidently, consistently meet penciled in dates because I hurt so badly one way or another. Back home, if I had to cancel, the people around me knew me and the situations well enough and understood. We just rescheduled. I don’t have that luxury here. I am just so, so lonely. Like crying buckets of tears alone kind of lonely, and I’ve no clue how to better my situation.

Hope you guys are doing well. Thanks for being part of the #bipolaruninvitedblog family. Take care of yourselves and each other when and how you’re able. āœŒā¤šŸŒ¹

White Light

Warmth washing over me, inside me. What is this? I’m no longer of the world I know, but I’m somewhere; I exist. Here, there is no more pain. No more screeching headaches. No more manipulative, lying, obsessive thoughts. No more lying voices. No more roller coasters, though I must say as a child, I loved them. No one tells you that adult roller coasters are an entirely different organism than those you ride as kids.

No more bad. Only a fluidity; a new ability to glide instead of limp and stumble. Instead of plotting my way along, one knee giving more than the other; one hip higher than the other, cock-eyed, bones rubbing against one another, pain searing throughout.

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There are voices here too, but not the usual voices that plague me. Not the voices telling me that I’m not worth it. I’m suddenly feeling that I’m golden. No more telling me I can’t do it. Oh, I certainly can do it now. Go ahead, give me a thing to do. Ask me to display an unforgettable feat. Because right now, I can, and I want to show the world. I want to show family. I want to show friends. I want to say look, “Are you sorry for calling me pill-popper behind my back? Have you any idea the damage you did with that? The heap of scrap and garbage I felt like?”

More voices. I look, hoping I’m in the right place. The spirits I sense here are the ones with smiles and something akin to fairy dust that flies and bounces around in the air as they move. There are songs; must be similar to the sirens and what the men, proud of their ships, would hear just before their destruction and demise. I’m not going that direction, where I can only imagine how dark it is. How dank. How frightening. I wonder about that place. Are they all punished in the same way, or does each have to live their individual hell every day? Customized terror and punishment, I imagine.

Does that mean I will have a customized heaven? I’m going. I’ve been tired. I’m floating away. I’m listening to the voices urging me along, telling me happiness is about to engulf and transform me. I see the angelic white light. This is the stuff of Sunday School classes. And I know now, I’ve made it. My proverbial thorn in the side is about to be removed and healed. Removed by God himself. I finally unclench my fist, and let go in sweet surrender.

EPILOGUE: The character above who you’ve come to know is Nameless, and she had it all wrong. I’m here to tell you about Nameless because she cannot tell you the rest of her story. You see, Nameless had been in the hospital for quite a while, complaining of hearing voices, feeling extreme anxiety and having frequent, severe headaches. So, the doctors in the facility agreed and decided upon a miracle procedure to help Nameless. Ice pick lobotomy. The nurses with their caring, nurturing voices, all dressed in gleaming white, retrieved Nameless from her room and told her how much better she would feel from that point forward. That she was lucky; that many of the other residents didn’t have the privilege of making their way down the long, white hallway with the magical door at its end.

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Nameless doesn’t recall much now, and she can speak even less, but if she could, she would tell the other patients not to go down the white hallway. That down there, they will project an ice pick into your eye socket. Nameless would tell them her headaches are worse now, that she has permanently black eyes that never recovered, and that she can’t remember her husband or recognize her grandkids. That she can no longer crochet. However, Nameless can’t even speak now.

The truth is, Nameless thought she was going to heaven, but instead came out having barely survived the depths of hell, only to live in that hell everyday, parked in a wheelchair in front of a window with a view of a parking lot while drooling, and utterly terrified of what resides along the other hallways.

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Sever

Looking through old photos.

Dreadful, miserable, intolerable, draining, exhausting, depleting, frightening, life-sucking.

All of these words describe my Bipolar occurrences and my chronic illness/pain issues.

What else do these words describe? Reactions to me when I seek help. What’s worse, I experience this in my own home.

Yes, I’m sure I become a lot to listen to because there’s a lot going on; and honestly, I wouldn’t want to listen to me, either. However, I would like to think I would respond on some sort of meaningful level rather than receive a quick platitude and then watch the person I’m talking to go right back to looking at that phone.

I know I would behave differently than what I receive sometimes because I help my son with his issues of Bipolar and anxiety. Yes, he can be a lot. It can be hard, but it’s just what you do.

I don’t get why…..

I guess I don’t even know what else to say.

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I will sign off and look at faded, slightly torn photos and wonder if eventually they will tear and sever in two.

Looking Up?

Hey, #bipolaruninvited Family!

I’ve been really bad since switching to Cymbalta. I switched due to my neurologist’s request, and my psychiatrist was okay with trying. All had to do with my Fibromyalgia. It was a bust. Really bad. So, i called my psychiatrist and am switching back to Lexapro. ASAP! Score one for the good guys!šŸ†

I got down pretty low but can tell I’m feeling some better. My son’s elation with being on track and field team and running so well is joyfully infectious.
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Also, I guess with money being tight, instead of curling up in a ball and hiding, it took me time, but IĀ  realized there are things I can do to help make a little extra money. So, if one cause of this depression (besides chemical) is being tight on money, for example, I’m feeling better because I have a plan of attack. Started out with a general plan/goals, then had to break it down almost like a family tree diagram and list what smaller steps will help me reach bigger goals.
Point is, I’m seeing a bit of the light at the end of the tunnel because I can now see how to work my way out of it, if that makes any sense.
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And my son is helping a lot, so that’s much appreciated. I guess all that to say, I have hope, and when I’m down in deep, dark, desolate pits, I don’t have hope.
I’m climbing out, just taking it slowly. šŸ’Ŗ
And how are y’all? Drop me a line. Take care of yourselves and each other. āœŒšŸ™šŸ’™