When your mind's made up

The truth is, I'm struggling so hard just to live right now. People can call me "emo", or "difficult" or whatever it is they want to label me, I really don't care. Except that I do. I think it should be safe for me to write here, or rant here. I know I have two followers, and they both do not know him, so it should be alright. In any case, if I receive complaints, I'll take the post down. I mean no harm. I just need to write this down. I need to acknowledge how I'm feeling.

1.04am, 24 Nov 2011
I've been severely depressed the whole day. I am missing the people who left my life - whether by choice, or by death. I feel crippled. I have no one. My fiance and I broke up because he fell for someone else. He said I was too difficult to handle, and she was the "better" choice. I wish I never had bipolar.

I wish I was dead. I would want to take my own life. But I've tried it before. And two years ago, I tried it and ended up causing more trouble instead. That was what led my ex to fall for someone else. That was what made me alone.

Maybe I shouldn't bother.

~~~~~~

He kept saying, even after we were over, that she is the true one he really loves. I hope one day they'll be together. I am very angry at him, and the many things that have happened, but I wish him the best. Except that it's crippling me inside.

I have "uncertain" feelings for other people, too. But I'll probably never act out on them ever again, because the last time I did, I got a big blow right at my face. And now the person is keeping away from me. I wish I knew what I did wrong. I wish we could still be friends.

So the other day I was talking to a friend, and I said that I was tired of making the first move. I was tired of even bringing things up, athough this confuses me so. You see, I have lost people in my past, some by death. And I regret completely for not being honest with telling them about how I feel. So I chose a different route. I chose to tell them how I feel, as long as I'm still alive. But then they shun away. They run away.

Am I really that scary?

I thought he was the right one. Now I feel like no one can ever love me or accept me for who I am, including the fact that I have bipolar. The break up happened three months ago, I thought I would have felt better by now, but I still feel miserable. And every time I see him, I can't help but feel so hurt. I'm reminded of someone who went down on his knees and made promises he couldn't even keep.

I've always been unlucky in love, so when he happened, I thought that I had my break. But now it all seems to fall apart. I just feel so hurt.

~~~~~~

I have been going through such a rough time. Some days I am happier that he is gone, but some days I can't help but remember the better days (or, when I'm "sane", I call them my more manic days; when every thing seems fine and dandy even when they actually weren't). I am an artist - I'm an actor and writer, and I wish I was more inspired during moments like these. I do think that these moments of neuroses do help with my craft, though. At least I'm trying to look at the brighter side of things.

~~~~~~

2.20pm, 24 Nov 2011
It's 2.20pm, I just woke up and I still feel terribly depressed. I don't feel like I'll ever be okay ever again. I'm so sorry for bringing negative energy here. When my ex-fiance and I were together, he always said I always bring people down. He said I was good for nothing. I asked him why I was always proud of him, but he was never proud of me, and he said that it was because I did nothing.

I'll never bother any of you ever again. If you want to find me, you know where to find me. Otherwise, goodbye, have a nice life.

And it kills me that to every person I have ever said "I love you" to, I have meant it.

And it kills me knowing that they never did.

That childlike heart I gave you that you threw away

I had to share this story I found online. It was a comment left on a post about loving someone with bipolar disorder. This story made me believe that it is possible to love a beeper, wholeheartedly, and with complete acceptance. I can relate to this all too well, except that unlike her husband, I never found someone like her who would love me for all that I am. And, I now believe that for the rest of my life, I never will.

~~~~~~~~~

release_the_bats 12 Mar 2010 @ 11:32 pm

I have loved someone with rapid cycling bipolar disorder. I am an experienced researcher in psychoneuropsychology and other areas of psychology, which helped immensely. When we met he was badly misdiagnosed, which became very clear to me early on (those intense and sudden “arguments” were illogical and betrayed signs of hyopmania.) His diagnosis was “generalized anxiety disorder”. He was unmedicated, had lived a horrific life – alcoholic abusive father, mentally ill but never diagnosed mother who was in & out of the biggest mental institution in the city regularly. His memories of her were sketchy – cooked & kept beer for his father well stocked. His memories of his father were far more vivid. His only other relationship scarred him so badly he never dated again. I have lived with Major Depressive Disorder my entire life. At times a good day was getting out of bed. A great day was getting out of bed and brushing my teeth. At other times I won scholarships & topped the Dean’s List (always with tremendous struggle because depression never left-it merely..well, that’s another story). When I met him I found him easy company: His quick wit, offbeat humor & keen intelligence made me laugh & was good medicine. But I warned him that people with GAD didn’t wake up in psychiatric hospitals having stumbled in after losing time. There was mutual attraction but the point was never pressed & we were both shy about it. One day after sharing a coffee, bundled in his big parka, he gave me a big, long hug, our usual parting gesture. Then another. Finally he turned to leave, took about 8 steps, then rushed back, gave me a chaste peck on the lips and ran away quickly as if terribly embarrassed. I was smitten. Our courtship was difficult to say the least. And not just the “turning on a dime” temperament. The excitement of falling in love was fuelling his mania. I had to learn to be vigilant for small indications he was beginning to spin out. He had to learn to listen to me – which was very hard for him – and take such observations seriously. I had to set boundaries, which I was always notoriously bad at. And we fought! We eventually started to live together. I had already been helping him set up psychiatric appointments with specialistsand accompanied him every time, most of the time being allowed to sit in. He rarely suffered from depression – more “melancholy” or “pensively sad” occasionally than seriously depressed. He was mostly manic – VERY HIGH manic. As bad as anyone I’d every seen, even in teaching hospitals. Most phenothiazines were like candy to him. He slept poorly but often drifted off with his head on my chest listening to the regular beating of my heart while I played with his unruly hair, both of which soothed him. One day I noticed my credit card was gone. He didn’t come home. I cancelled the card although very little had been charged to it – a case of beer for some friends. I phoned every hospital, every shelter, every acquaintance..I was frantic. Two days later I got a call from the only purely psychiatric hospital in the city: Did I want them to mail my credit card to me? I asked if he was there, if he’d been there. That was confidential. I raced down there in a taxi, walked into the ICU and asked to see him by name. They pointed to a room at the end of the hall. When he saw me he wouldn’t look at me. “Why didn’t you just let them mail your card back?”, he spat out., “Why did you come here?” It wasn’t anger at me – it was at himself. Manic people have very poor impulse control. The card was on my purse – it was an unthinking gesture. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I ruined everything. I know…over nothing! Just leave me alone, please…don’t make it worse!” He looked so small (he was not a large man) and vulnerable – fragile even – in his hospital gown. I took his head in my hands and forced him to look at me. “Why?”, I asked. “I don’t know!!” And I knew he was telling the truth. I held him close and kissed him gently. He looked confused. He couldn’t understand how I could take him back – how I could still love him? He started to weep openly. I hopped onto the bed, put his head in my lap and stroked his hair…I don’t think anybody had ever forgiven him for anything.

The moment of truth for me came when he had his first psychotic break. I woke up one morning and he was gone.He showed up two days later covered in mud and confused. I’d been sick with worry. I called an ambulance but he became openly hostile (though he was NEVER EVER physically violent with me or anyone else, he could cut you with words…that ugly argumentative belligerence so typical of mania or rising mania.) The police were dispatched and he was handcuffed and made to ride in a cruiser. Ugh! I will tell you there is almost nothing worse in the world than seeing the person you love most in life-someone who is part of your soul (because this happened several times through the years) completely delusional with 2 200-lb security guards leaning on him while someone else fastens him to a hospital bed with big leather buckles in the 4-point position. Straining until the veins on his head were popping, he was under the impression it was a secret black-op mission and I was the spy who turned him in for reasons I never understood. I was terrified, horrified – no training or research had ever prepared me for this. I bent over to kiss his forehead and he spat in my face spewing a string of vulgarity at me that I’d never heard him use. (He later claimed it was impossible he had used that language with me; he refused to believe he was capable of it. I said I understood he was in a world of fear that didn’t correspond to reality.) I wept softly outside his room. He didn’t want me there. The nurses said I wasn’t welcome if he didn’t want me there. I left my University windbreaker with his name written in it and a note saying I loved him. It was the 5th month we had been living together. That was when I made my decision to not cut bait. Many wonderful (and often horrible) times ensued. Years..Overdoses on anything he could get his hands on to ease his anxiety (I eventually bought a small safe to keep my own drugs in to prevent this). Once he was almost unconscious in ICU for 12 hours. 2 hours later, after rousing to full consciousness he’d been moved to a room. One hour later he flew into a psychotic manic state yelling into the phone he’d been taken prisoner, ripped the IV out of his arm so violently that long blood streaks lined the hall he ran down in hastily donned jeans and hospital gown and tore off into a stairwell. The nurses assured me security had been alerted and would catch him. I shook my head with tears in my eyes and said, “No they won’t”. “Sure they will – they’re waiting for him and it’s 2 am.” At 2:30 I was standing in a hospital parking lot yelling his name into the darkness. Three days later he turned up at a psychiatric hospital, confused and unsure what had happened. We were never married in a church, but we did exchange vows and rings, with a friend as witness. I told him I promised that no matter how ugly things got I would not run away; I would never abandon him. I asked if he could honestly say the same thing. He did. I know friends who exchanged traditional vows (which i believe our sentiments sum up) in a church ceremony who were divorced after having childlren when my man and I were still going strong. Through a severe depression and some ugly family and chronic physical problems, he was always there for me. He was attentive, sensitive, and free of any machismo or need to do anything but BE with me. I loved him like my own life. I’d been betrayed by men before. With him *I* noticed beautiful women. He didn’t even take a second look. I once asked if he ever thought of suicide (a place I’ve visited many times). His answer was, “No – I”d never kill myself. Never. But I do believe that when death comes, it will be the only cure for what’s wrong with me.”
An understandable opinion: The constant merry-go-round of medications, the combinations, the side-effects, the drugs for the side-effects. His mania was extreme and intractable, and I don’t need to remind anyone who has loved someone with mania how long it can take to get an even mildly adequate combination.) He had to take leave from work. It was a difficult time. But there was something wonderfully childlike in his wonder at just being loved. He doted on me when I was sick – and often when I was well. He was unashamed to go buy me tampons or ask if my period was troubling me…it didn’t matter to him. It was just part of what love meant. He always had my latte ready and every morning without fail greeted me: “Good morning Sunshine! NOW the sun is officially up!”

There was something zenlike about him just being in the moment all the time. I learned so much from him. I learned to have a real relationship – an honest, vulnerable, no holds barred relationship.

Two days before we were finally financially able to manage our own small one-bedroom we were packed and excited. He had been dong much better for a year – back to work, far more stable, in a CBT group, trying meditation with me. He still had terrible panic attacks. He still had to be very careful. He still slept poorly. You can only take so much medication. But it was better. No more disappearances, no more frantic “where could he be” nights for me. That night we barely slept and woke up early. He was joyous, danced with me, delerious with finally “being able to properly provide” a decent place for us. But no sign of mania whatsoever. Just happy. We had breakfast and took a nap so we’d be fresher to meet the realtor that afternoon. I fell asleep with his arm around me and his breath on my neck.

An hour an a quarter later I woke up and found him dead, in our bed.
He was still warm.

I dragged him off and furiously started compressions with a phone under one ear calling an ambulance.

Hours later, those terrible words.
“I’m sorry ma’am…there’s nothing else we can do.”

He was 38 years old.

The official cause of death was sudden unexplained cardiac arrest.
“Fibrillation – it happens to us all sometimes. Usually the heart gets rhythm back again. Very rarely it doesn’t.”

A little over a year has passed since then – that first year during which I almost never left bed and wanted to die. I took a lot of sedatives to dull the pain enough to live through. I miss him. I MISS HIM WITH MY WHOLE BEING.
I don’t believe in a soul that survives death. I wish I did. Most days I feel like I”ve been in shock for the past year. That I’m just realizing he’s not coming back this time. Like part of my very self has been ripped out. I’m not sure who I am anymore. I see his beautiful face lying cold in that horrible coffin. I cry every day. Perhaps one day memories will be a consolation, but right now they are like acid – like stingers spearing my heart mercilessly.

I don’t regret one single moment. One night of worry. One huge fight. One horrific episode. Nothing. He taught me to look at the world with the wonder of a child – not childishly, but with a childlike heart. He taught me so much. I felt so loved. I had something, if only for a brief time, that some people never know their whole lives.
In memory of my beloved husband, and dedicated to anyone who knows the intense joy as well as the frustration and pain of loving (and being loved by) someone with bipolar disorder.

A blessing or a curse

Today, I heard of a guy who apparently attempted to cycle to Afghanistan to help liberate the people there. He didn't even get past the Malaysian borders. He didn't even have a passport. Apparently he didn't even leave the vicinity of KL. The authorities stopped him, and started interrogating.

But here's the thing. It triggered something in me. For someone to do such a thing, to possibly just wake up one morning and decide to go on a mission, that person has to have some bipolar quirks. There's no other way to say it, or explain it. There is only one thing that can drive a person to do such a thing; an act out of compulsion that baffles many - mania. When one is manic, that person can do many things that the person can't even explain why or how...

Which got me to thinking. I realised that my bipolar disorder was both a blessing and a curse. I mean, if I never had this illness, I don't think I would have lived my life the way I did. In fact, most of my living was done out of compulsions and impulse. Living feels free when you are manic. You are in control, you are happy, you are literally on top of the world. On numerous occasions, I have felt like I was set up on a mission. I read an article somewhere about someone who was bipolar who offered to drive a busload of kids somewhere, and halfway through, he got bored and just left. A little selfish, definitely, but who else would do something like that? To visit the extreme of life?

But sometimes, I do wonder, if I'm old and dying and when I think back upon my life, will I just see specks of craziness that peppered my entire life? I sometimes wish for stability - to wake up feeling one way, and to go to bed feeling the same. And NOT feeling numb, or numbed by the pain. I always say this, but I can't help but feel this way: that I never asked to be born with this; I didn't choose it, it chose me. For some reason, it chose me.

So I have no choice but to fight it, or succumb to it, or basically, live with it. This illness makes me strange. And people don't like strange. This illness ruined all my relationships. Nobody could accept me fully for who I am, or was, because of what I have (even before I was diagnosed). Relationships are ruined by violence; fiery words that meet fist fights and tight slaps, especially when I encounter another person who has issues. My bipolar is made worse when I am with someone volatile. It becomes undeniably an abusive relationship, though it took me years to realise this. And just like most abusive relationships, you can't get out. You simply can't. On good, manic days, you only see the good in your partner and yourself, and there is no other craziness that resembles the euphoria of love like mania. Then the bad days come, and you cower, with no self-confidence, taking in word after word after word, bringing you down, down, down, into the lowest point you can get to. On even worse days, the relationship turns physically abusive - from slaps to punches on the stomach to hair pulling to shoving.

It has come to a point where I realise my struggles with bipolar will always be a personal struggle. To however amount I affect others, I am always alone.

After all, when I was in the hospital, having nurses pump my stomach, I was literally alone. I had no one to hold my hand. All I could hear was the voice of a nurse taunting me, asking me why I didn't just swallow the entire bottle.

And later on, to hear from a doctor that I took enough of it that I could have killed a horse. But I lived. For some strange reason, I lived.

So on days and nights when I feel like I have no purpose, I think back to that night. And I wonder why I lived. So maybe I'll never have relationships. Maybe I'll never have a proper career. Maybe I'll never be able to have a family. Maybe, simply put, nobody will want me.

But here's the deal. I am here. I am alive. My fingers are slowly letting go of this string called life, but I'm still hanging on.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

I have been fooled. Close to a year ago, on my birthday, we went to that "pig restaurant", El Cerdo. The one in Changkat Bukit Bintang. Remember? We ordered a whole suckling pig, and it was tradition to smash a plate and then use the broken plate to cut the pig.

The person who attended to us asked which one of us was going to have the honours of smashing the plate. You asked me to do it, because it was my birthday. You told me to bring us luck, because that was what it signified.

He asked me to wish for either one of these - relationship or wealth. I wasn't supposed to say it out loud. I made my wish, and smashed the plate. He used the plate to cut the pig up, and we ate it.

Later on, you asked me what I wished for. I told you "relationship". And you had that disappointed look on your face. You said, "We already have a relationship. You should have asked for wealth instead."

Close to a year later, I can't help but feel like I've been fooled. I wished for good luck in relationships. And you know what's funny? I don't have either right now. I don't have good luck in relationships, and I don't have good luck in wealth either.

From now on, I will not make wishes on my birthday. They have never, and will never come true.

I will no longer be the same person I was before. Because I will no longer be taken for a fool.

Breakeven

You seem to be in high spirits today.

'Cos when a heart breaks no it don't break even.

I don't know how to feel. Happy, I should be. To see you happy this way.

While I'm wide awake he's no trouble sleeping.

This is probably why it's best that I move out today. I know a lot of people, especially women, when going through something like this, would try their best to show that they're strong. Vulnerability is a big no-no in a situation like this. But you know me. You've always known me. I've never been like most women. I wear my heart on my sleeve. This is how I feel, and lying to myself or even to the world is not going to make myself feel any better.

So I'm mourning.

'Cos he's moved on while I'm still grieving.

I'm torn apart inside. I was wondering what I'll be eating for lunch or dinner, and realise that I will not have to buy you food. I'll be missing that, for sure. Because somehow, within this innate part of me, I like caring for you. But neglect. Yes, I have made friends with the devil, and unfortunately you were part of the bargain. Or was I?

I'm very alone. I'm very lonely. I can't think of anyone I can actually call to come help me move. Or just come over to my new place and help me sort things out. What have I become? I don't know who I am no more.

I'm falling to pieces, yeah
I'm falling to pieces.

How do I wipe my tears dry and just move on from this?

'Cos when a heart breaks no it don't break even.

Quite the Opposite of Vindicated

There's a reason to everything in life, or at least that is what I'd like to believe. I've been blogging on and off since I was 15, first on bolt.com (which is now defunct), then on other platforms, before moving on to Blogger.com. And even on Blogger.com, I have two accounts. I chose this one because the other account contains more blogs that I went through. If you're reading the sidebar and notice what I've written, that was from three years ago. That is still me, so I decided to keep it. The only thing that's changed is my age, of course.

Somehow I came to the realisation that starting a new blog often signifies the start of something new in life (that's the more manic, positive side of me speaking) or rather, the end of something (and that's my bitterness taking over). I even had my own domain for two to three years, that was www.razzberry.org (which is now defunct, just like many other things/situations/people in my life).

I know the next few months, if not years, will be very difficult for me, and writing has always been a way for me to express myself. NOTE: By now, some of you who have been reading my old blogs/following me for some time will realise and wonder why I'm writing in such clarity, with no profound words or statements, but fret not, that is yet to come. So, as I was saying, I am now in a very dark place. Possibly the darkest, yet most bittersweet moment in my life, ever. By far, at least. That is, if I make it, but I don't want to go there. Not yet, at least. Not now, not when I am feeling this way. Because I realise that the madness ends when you are feeling this way. "What madness?", I was asked by a friend today. And I said, "The spunkiness. The spontaneity. The craziness. The zaniness. The sense of humour."

Of course, I can't promise not to torture anyone on Facebook (which seems to be my main mode of self-expression these days) with what I'm going through, but I will try. Which is probably why this blog came about anyway - so that I'm able to rekindle the old days of writing with no worry, and hopefully I will be able to find some strength in the words that I often find comfort it. With all that said, I will now attempt to journal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's a reason to why things happen. It hasn't fully sunk in; the realisation of this great loss. I keep telling myself, this feels like a divorce. I spent the last two hours going through old blog posts, and encountered posts that touched on love, marriage, commitment, and my fear of them all. If only you knew. If only you knew how badly I wanted someone to strip me bare, strip me naked, down to my bones and touch me and expose me for who I am. And you did just that. I know now that you came into my life not by coincidence. You were brought into my life when I had become someone I couldn't be; the same person I talked about being three years ago, right before we happened. Unlike most people trying to climb out of their comfort zones, I had done exactly that, and I felt too much, saw too much, feared too much, and wanted so badly to climb back in. I held on to that fear for so long until you came along and you broke those walls I had built around me.

I am brought back to a Sunday more than three years ago when I was lying down on this bed in Ikea, and you snuck up behind me and planted a kiss on my arm. A small, gentle kiss. I couldn't help it. Along with the kiss, you planted goosebumps on my shoulders that crept down my spine. I could have easily turned my face around and faced you, and we could have kissed right there and then. Who cares if anyone was looking? It felt right. But it wasn't. Because it wasn't meant to happen there and then. Maybe because if it did, I wouldn't be able to walk through Ikea ever again. Stung by past memories, I wouldn't be able to walk past that same section or see anyone hanging around that area. Perhaps I would be enveloped with rage or confusion or just plain sorrow.

Disengage me from this battle, for you would have won. And in the end, I think you did. You won the battle but not the war. Because to me, none of us can really go home with a trophy.

Home. Right now I'm in transit it feels like there's no home for me anywhere. I cannot turn to you and say "thank you". Not now, not yet. Not when we're still under the same roof, and you're still sitting next to me, and everything could be the way they used to be, but they're not. Because we're not. You didn't just make an entrance into my life; you actually stormed into my life. Just like a hurricane, you swept me off my feet, turned me insane, and became the one person I could see myself ending up with. I stopped being who I was, you said. You said that I stopped making you happy. And for that I want to say "I'm sorry". I wish I could take myself away from your life in entirety because even if I brought small seeds of sorrow into your life, which I surely did, and in oceans, I can't forgive myself for it. And right now I can't.

Because you're the one person who could tell me that, upon discovering a T-shirt that says "Happily ever after was so once upon a time", it was the silliest T-shirt because it means that it happened once ago. But the thing is, it did. I probably never told you this, but before you, there were two other guys who proposed. Either jokingly or seriously, I'm not sure. But one had a ring. The other didn't. Both didn't go on one knee. And ironically, you didn't either, because you went on both. You had that look on your face. And I was this psychotic crazy person who went off on you the next day.

Because it's so hard for me to admit this to myself, but I know I have to, and I will... that I ruined everything. It's like I've been building an emotional wall with Lego pieces all my life, and you came along and stomped on them, and I ruined everything by slapping you instead of thanking you instead.

But that wall I built was perhaps the same thing that would have protected me against you. But looking back, why would I need protection? You opened my heart and made me feel. You took my heart out, repaired some of the broken parts, and gave it back to me. Or did you? Because I remember yelling at you just more than a month ago when you threatened to leave, and yelled out loud that "I gave you all my heart, and that is why you cannot go".

But now I see it clearly. Now I realise how some cliches are so true. When you love someone, you have to set them free. Especially when you have been hurting them so. Especially when you know they deserve to be with someone better than you.

I guess what I really want to say is that I made so many mistakes, and I wish with all my heart that I never happened to you.

Because I'm a damaged good from the start, and nobody deserves a damaged good.

Nobody.