depression. OCD. bipolar-ocity.

it's like this.....

i have everything i need. i have a nice house, an extremely hard-working husband who says he loves me to death, and two amazing, smart and loving children.

i have 2 cats and 2 hamsters that light up my days.

i'm not very healthy but i'm not completely incapable of changing that either.

i consider myself an artist because that is my passion, i want to do nothing else most days, and i think i'm ok at it.

yet i feel uncontrollably sad and hopeless.

i have really neat collections of things i love and tons of old books to absorb, but i don't pay any attention to any of it. no-one else in the world cares. i crave the existence of all of it, NEED to look at it to survive each day, then i think of how much it bothers me that it means nothing to anyone else - because it's what defines me...therefore i am invisible. 

i am so much the same as every other parent out there....homework to help with, a ton of appointments to make and keep, endless cleaning and laundry, piles of things to go through and errands to run, but i resent it all. tiniest responsibilities tie me down and make me want to close my eyes til it's all over.

every day i wake up tired - no, exhausted because all night i have stressful dreams and fight to correct things in them. they are as real to me as day. thoughts never ever stop and just the slightest daily input of a phone call or even the sound of my computer fan can be too much. how badly i wish my OCD was about checking door locks...no, i have thoughts about fights i had years ago, things people say, looks i get....over and over i relive things that took me down as i try to change it all in my head. i know it's self-abusive and i cannot stop it.

"lighten up". "move on". it's disgusting and horrible to be around me so i avoid contact with anyone who might be offended by my ugliness. then i become guilty for being antisocial and worry how my kids will turn out if i become a hermit.

"just go outside, go somewhere!". "make a schedule". very difficult indeed and i don't care. i just don't. i am at my most level when i have no schedule, nothing that has to be done, and nothing to plan or prepare for.

in truth, i would hand it all over in a heartbeat. as much as i adore my kids and know they need me, i feel incapable of giving them what they need...even just time to play. i cringe when i think of them turning out like me, and think that if they were raised by "normal" people (another whole discussion, yes) they might have a chance.

i yearn to live alone. if i never had to see another person i would be happy. i know i would slowly kill myself by overeating and hoarding, but that would be ok. i would be able to do everything i want to- draw all day, eat, collect, watch movies, sit at my virtual world and sleep. i pretend there would be no bills, endless money and someone to do the shopping.

i'm not stupid. i have a degree- in psychology and art therapy! but it doesn't make me at all able to stop the cycles and change any of it.

bipolar cycles are a joy. i can cycle ten times a day or once in several weeks. depends on how much is going on. i'm not as angry as i used to be, so for that i am grateful, very grateful. my bottom is not as deep as it used to be, also great. i don't have the energy for the mania like i did in the past- all good! but levels i have now are still debilitating and can suck the life out of me. 

"you focus to much on yourself". "life is short-just enjoy and appreciate every minute". like i WANT to be like this. i enjoy being so self-absorbed! fact is, i hate most everything about myself so that is not what the reality is.

the reality is that from the moment i wake up (technically....though i struggle all night as well), it takes everything in my power to be "normal"....to not end up in a tailspin....to not end up in bed crying until i can't breathe. or just laying there staring off into my own head. am i depressing you? try living it. people hate how negative and pessimistic i am.... if they could only see what was on the inside of my skull.

i feel better now after writing it all out - again. maybe someone who reads all this can relate. maybe there is a loved one who suffers as well, and more understanding can be had by those who get to watch. if ONE person benefits from reading this, i have done something worthwhile. 

as for me, i'm now exhausted again and need to lie down. i have been trying to get through to any one of 3 new psychiatrists to provide me with prescription maintenance, but not one of them has gotten back to me after almost a week. 

so it goes...

how my journaling started

i used to write endlessly in my personal journals. i was born with a LOVE for the physical act of writing, and kept many diaries and keepsake journals. but the matters i wrote about in my young adult years were things that bothered me, so i was actually giving permission to my brain to continue obssessing. yes, i unwaveringly believe that this process is cathartic and useful, and that writing out thoughts can dismiss them from your mind, but i also found that i kept returning to my journals for affirmation that i had reasons to be crazy. by rereading entries, i opened old crap for re-examination, which eventually made the thought processes spin further out of control.

i continued writing for years, sometimes pages filled with small longhand, other times a few disjointed words scrawled, painted or carved into the paper, but really very few drawings of any kind. the written word was seemingly more understandable to my imaginary readers? my only "art" was done separately from my journals, for classes mostly...

at the time i was most prolific with written journals, i was the most ill. i didn't care that my rantings were very unpleasant and disturbing to others. i was still new to my braincrap (as it presented during these years), and i was unsure of what to make of it.  i was scared, suicidal and in moments of lucidity, embarassed. this dark period (that sounds so artistic) overlapped with my bachelor's studies in art therapy and psychology. at one point my art therapy professor (thank you, M) expressed concern over my art therapy class journal and projects. he insisted i find a therapist, and i did.

and the excrutiatingly slow process of mental rehab (through self-imposed art therapy) begins...