Friday, March 6, 2009

Questions About Confidence (Originally published on 11.20.2008)

Ok, so this has been bugging the hell out of me and I must ask for your feedback because I’d like to see different viewpoints on this subject.

Self confidence.

This has always been an elusive trait for me. I can’t quite seem to grasp it. I used to be painfully shy but some people that know me now would never assume that. When I’m introduced to new people or when I enter a party, depending on my mood, I either immediately begin a conversation with whoever is closest or shrink into the wall thereby becoming a flower.

Is self confidence just a front? Is it something that you have to practice and then maybe you’ll eventually believe it? If I pretend to be confident wouldn’t that make me a phony? Wouldn’t that make me a fake? You see I really, really, REALLY despise myself. I have never once wanted to be me; I have always wanted to be someone else. My envy of people comfortable in their own skin has actually lead to the termination of friendships. I get frustrated that they can love themselves while I’ve broken mirrors due to my self resentment. They get fed up by my constant self deprecating comments and inability to believe them when they compliment me. I don’t know how much of this is from being bipolar or from being raised by people that also hated who they were. I used to cover up the mirrors in my room and my mother would just laugh at me and think I was being ridiculous instead of really being concerned as to why her 18 year old daughter can’t stand to look in the mirror. Up until recently, I only had one mirror in my room and eventually a good friend got me a full length one for my birthday just so I could see what my outfits actually looked like.

I don’t even trust my own brain to make a decision so I usually base my decisions on other people’s words. I can not even begin to describe how many relationships were ruined this way. I am so wishy washy that it disgusts me. I can’t make up my own mind so I greedily suck in the ideas of others. Maybe I’m scared to just be myself because I could get rejected so easily. I’m a people pleaser; I always put everyone else’s needs in front of my own. I’m getting a tad better at actually sticking to my beliefs but I feel so inadequate when people ask me to back up what I believe or ask me where I got the source from some fact. My memory has become so horrendous that I only catch snippets of things. Perhaps I should just stop relaying things at all. But then I would just crawl in to my shell once more and close it.

People say I’m too hard on myself. Yeah, I’m aware of that. I don’t know how to stop it. People get so disgruntled at my inability to change. I DON’T KNOW HOW! So does it just take practice? If I feign self love will that make me love myself?

Sometimes I do think that I’m ok. I look over my list of accomplishments and feel a bit proud that I’ve made it on my own with almost no support from my family or a man. Sometimes I think I’m strong but then that horrid little voice kicks in and assures me that I am not strong, that I am weak because I can’t let a man in and love me. That I hide everything until it festers then explodes. That I am a waste of space that I am a coward because I can’t just be myself, that it’s too late to start anything new, that I’m lazy and everyone secretly snickers at me behind my back, that I’m selfish and a phony. Etc, etc.

Oh what a vorpal tongue it has.

So I ask you, what is self confidence? Is it a front? Is it something to practice? Or do you genuinely have to love yourself? If that’s the case…. I feel I’m fucked.

5 comments:

chelsea said...

Hey Heather! I totally get where you're coming from on this self confidence stuff. I think that it is one part bipolar, one part your upbringing, and one part, yes, lack of practice.

I recommend: http://tut.com sign up for the Notes from the Universe. Surprisingly helpful to receive a daily note about how awesome you are, sent with love from your creator. Sounds corny, but these notes have helped me for a year to learn to feel better about myself.

Do that first. Then, every day, check your email and read that note, and (you have a powerful imagination: use it) pretend that it is REAL.

Second: When you receive a compliment of ANY KIND, do this: Just say Thank You. I know that this is the HARDEST thing to do sometimes, and might make you feel extremely squirrely and awkward, but just do it. Just practice saying Thank You. That's it, that's all, no explanations about why this person who likes your shoes is on crack because you only paid eight bucks fro them at Target when clearly, she is rocking a sweet pair of Jimmy Choos. Just. Say. Thank You. And smile.

One of the hardest things to do when you can barely even like yourself is to let anyone else love you. It's definitely a wall we put up to deter the impending possibility that the someone who is trying to love you will soon find out that there is something WRONG with you. I have a habit of sabotaging good relationships with great guys in favor of total jerks. My sick reasoning, I know, is that the good guys deserve better, and the jerks, well the jerks deserve a physcho like me.

Anyhoo, this has now become a novel. But you can build it up, by practicing basic good manners - just say thank you- and by getting those notes every day. Also, what is it you see in the mirror that you find so offensive? The outside of you, or the inside?

Post a picture of yourself, and let us tell you what we think!

I already know that you are one fab & talented gal, who is simply wrestling with a wicked, wicked, yes VORPAL TONGUED Jabberwocky.
That doesn't make you unlovable. That makes you tough and strong and capable of a lot more than "regular" people.

Bert the wonder hog! said...

the only mirror I have in my room is a little 6"^2 one, but thats because I'm a hobo!

And I dont know, I think confidence can be practiced. Also studies have shown that self confidence isnt always neccesary. There are a lot of self loathing people that have accomplished amazing things (hemmingway, poe, and thompson for example.)
But I think it does have a big effect on happyness.

Not trying to pick on you, but your insecurities sometimes make it rather hard to be your friend. I think you know that. I dont know how it works in general, but I know for me I just had to think about myself differently. Of course its different for everyone and Im not trying to say it would be easy for you, but I think it is like a skill you can learn.

I know you want to be happier than you are, and self confidence is part of that. It is possible and you can do it. I know you can.

Paddym22 said...

I used to be annonyingly self confident and now I am just of puddle of self doubt and hatred. I look ok, its not my looks that have escaped me. It is the power of the untamed mined usually in a depressed state that and I think it is a lot to do with leant behaviour( we spell certain words differently in Europe Colour - color, centre - center, theatre - theater)My experience with learnt behviour stems from years of peer abuse and bullying so I know my confidence in a public setting is very poor. However in previous jobs I was a very confident individual and did well because people knew nothing about me and I was dealing with situations that had nothing to do with my early life. However now I am a mish mash of all the self's (doubt, hate etc.) How to come out of it, I dont know....I thik the first step is to differentiate which elements of the lack of confidence comes from ie. early psychological traumas etc. and more presently cleaning up the mess after your mood swings out of control. My therapist keeps saying to me "its not your fault, forgive yourself" But I didnt do anything to me I reply.......tough call. To me to go to the vegetable market and ask for a kilo of courgettes at the moment takes up as much of my self confidence that Obama will need on January 20th to deliver the inaugural addresss.

+/- said...

I think you need to level the playing field a little here Heath-bar. Chelsea is a god damn genius by the way. I love those tips.

You need to remember that everyone has something they are insecure about. I'm sure there is something that oh.. Keira Knightly (sp?) doesn't like about herself. I think there is a difference between "self confidence" and well... the opposite of "self loathing". I believe, even if one loathes oneself, they may still be confident.
I asked Elfie about this the other day, do I seem confident? Is there really a difference between "self-confidence" and just exuding confidence? I'd generalize and say I don't feel confident about 60% of the time, yet to others, I seem very confident.

I think part of confidence is being sure about things. Being able to tell someone without a doubt, some inane statistic, quote the source, or whatever. I think it's easier to feel smart that way, as well.

There is definitely a correlation of feeling smart, and self-confidence. And looks don't have anything to do with it. You know it looks more "confident" to sit- or stand-up straight, rather than slouch. There's a way to carry yourself with confidence, and you've always pulled that off well, even if you don't FEEL it.

And, who the hell cares if you fake confidence? Who's going to know? Fake it and see, what's the worst that's gonna happen? (In case the answer here isn't obvious, it's: NOTHING! because no one will know just how uncomfortable you are unless you tell them!)

And, follow Chelsea's advise. Please.

Trying (Originally published on 11.19.2008)

So yeah, I know that my posts vary from quirky adventures to weird reflections on my childhood, inner emotions, etc. I wish all the posts could be based on my misadventures or observations but there are a lot of things I need to process that happened years ago. Writing them helps me organize and face a lot of things I’ve shoved to the side for a very long time. Sometimes I secretly wish a family member would read it and go “Ohhhhhh, yeah, sorry about that”. I dunno. My brain is strange. When I went on medication, I mistakenly thought that it would some how give me self confidence and make my depressions go away. Well it did make my depressions fade to melancholy but it didn’t take away this crippling self hate that doesn’t seem to want to dissipate.

Meh.

I am going to try and tone it down a bit though as I’m really not sure I want to go into the details of all my issues. I have a journal for that. Sooo yeah. lol I guess this is a weird apology in a way. I’ll write about my bipolar but leave my past out of it. Or at least parts that aren’t relevant… I think. Ahh ha.

Speaking of bipolar, as I mentioned before I’ve been in this weird state of melancholy that’s kinda disturbing my ability to work efficiently. I keep getting frustrated by how hard it is for me to focus. I’m pretty sure it’s not because of the medication because I’ve always had this problem. I put stuff off instead of just doing it and it’s definitely showing. Hell I can’t even focus on writing this post. I keep getting distracted or staring off into space. Maybe it’s from lack of sleep? I tried to get in bed by 11 but by the time I looked at the clock it was 12. Then I was too cold because I always leave a window open and had to cover my head with a blanket etc. I also woke up earlier then I have in awhile, 7:30. Ugh. I just hate going to bed. I feel like I hardly get any time in the day to do anything I’d like to do. I’m really not a big fan of my job but I know I have to do it because… in this economy, I really can’t get fired.

I need to learn self discipline. Ok, lets make a list Heather (yes, I am referring to myself in the third person… shhhhhhhhh).

1. Call the guidance counselor and GO TO THE FUCKING APPOINTMENT.
First part is kinda done. The dude was new and had no idea how to schedule anything so someone is going to call me back.
2. START WRITING MY FREAKING NOVEL ooooooooor my…coughcoughfanfictioncoughcough story. Yes, I do write that and am somewhat ashamed… BUT IT’S INSTANT FEEDBACK SO SHHHHHHHHHH. And fun. Shhhhhh
3. Try and complete a creative writing exercise from this book I have at least once a week and post it. WOO WOO.
4. Clean my sty of a room. I’ve let it go for far too long.
5. Actually set deadlines for myself at work and adhere to them.

I will be productive damn it!

3 comments:

chelsea said...

You've summed up my day in a long rambling post. I've been SO frustrated today by my lackofabilitytofocusandgetanythingdone. I hate it. So hey, did you see your breakdancing Lobsta over at the hubby's bloggy? You must go add on over there. What happens next??? For some reason, I have a hard time participating on my own hubby's blog, so you have to do it for me.

Well, if you find some magical productiveness, send it my way. WHat writing book is this you are wanting to do an exercise from each week? I should get it and do that with you. I have eight novels to write. Have you got Dorothea Brande's Becoming a Writer? Fabulous book. Too bad I have no amount of attention span that can get me into a schedule of any kind. I need a coach. Someone with a whistle that busts into my room every day and tells me what to do next in a hyper, overly peppy, and partly stern voice. Sigh. My brain is all confuddled today. I kind of want to just go to sleep and wake up awesome. Is that too much to ask for?

Paddym22 said...

Thanks for the comment. I am all with you on medicating. I think it vital in the management of the illness. I used to take loads, but now I am down to one and its cool..Certainly keeps me from crippilng psyhcosis and dank depression, so I am happy. Thanks for reading my blog and being a follower.

+/- said...

HEATHER!!! Don't forget: You also have A.D.D.

Duh... so it's going to be hard to focus. :)

And it's not your fault.

My Brain Is Dribbling Out My Ears (Originally published on 11.17.2008)

For serious. It’s 5:10 here and I’m staring at my screen with a look that could rival a blank page. It’s frustrating to be trapped where you don’t want to be but it’s the best option for now. I’m sure once school starts again I’ll be a bit better. Or I could have another breakdown… let’s cross our fingers for the first option shall we? I also need to wash away this shame and just go. to. the. damn. guidance. counselor. I’ve missed two appointments with them due to my irrational fear of… well I don’t even know what the hell I’m scared of.

*frustrated sigh*

It may have something to do with my inability to ask for help, or my fear of being looked down upon (my rational side is beating the shit out of the irrational voice chanting “THEY’RE A FUCKING GUIDANCE COUNSELOR. THEY’RE SUPPOSED TO HELP MORON”) or it could be my anxiety being like “Yo Heather, remember me?”.

Mehhhh.

It’s strange to be frustrated but it’s like a “normal” frustration. As in, it’s not all encompassing. I can look around me at my mess and not want to jump into a vat of boiling water. I can distract myself from being frustrated but not from being tired. This whole… baggage shizzy needs to be checked and intentionally left behind on the plane that will crash and burn. I wish there was a way to stop these thoughts immediately. These thoughts that circle and twist while squeezing my guts. I need to sledgehammer this devious filter that jumbles what’s coming in and what’s going out. I would love to stop hating myself and punishing myself for inane things.

Ehh! Why can’t this just be instant? lol

I am terrible at waiting for things. I am terrible at practicing things. Re-routing the circuit board that is my brain will take time but I feel like it’s wasted. I want to go out and enjoy the things that most people get to do. Like going out and having fun without having a little breakdown before I go out because I loath what’s in the mirror staring back at me. I am exceptional well at recognizing other peoples problems and helping them in finding a solution.

Why can’t I apply that to myself?

*goes back to staring blankly at computer screen*

1 comment:

chelsea said...

Hey Hey. Wow, it's been goin' around lately. Is it a full moon? What? what is it? Well I hope you are reeling in those nasty thoughts, replacing them with good thoughts. What is looking back at you in the mirror is a FUCKING AWESOME person. Who is being TRICKED by that Jabberwock, who is a big fat liar, who only speaks NONSENSE. I know this probably doesn't help you right now, but I'm thinking of you, I'm rooting for you.

big hug!

Trying To Be Me (Originally published on 11.17.2008)

Time to be brutally honest.

I am incredibly self conscious. It has reached a crippling level and now that my bipolar is manageable I have to move on and tackle this. I am finally figuring out why. For a majority of my life I have tried to be someone else. I am constantly pinging the people around me to mimic their actions, clothes, tastes and so on. This is left over from growing up with parents who really didn’t know how to be parents. I was never enough. Either I needed more makeup or different clothes or I “had so much potential” and I was “being lazy” because I did nothing with it. Honestly, I didn’t know what to do. I was never really encouraged to do anything. When I decided to take up the violin in grade school I had to use the “extra” violin because my parents refused to buy me one. My mother was convinced I would give up on it. So I did. My parents never really had me play in front of them. I do remember playing at Christmas but I think that was about it.

Even writing became daunting when I entered English class because I wasn’t using correct grammar. I put commas in the wrong place, I wasn’t using correct prepositional phrases, I put apostrophes in the wrong place and so on. So I stopped that for awhile too. I could never seem to get anything right. In 1st grade we did this exercise where the teacher would show us words and we had to draw what it was. I used colors because I think in colors. When I saw the word cat I colored a blob of yellow and orange. I had to stay in for recess because my teacher thought I was being a “smart alec”. So I learned to mimic the people around me so I wouldn’t stand out. I wouldn’t be picked on. I forced myself to think in images and to not let the colors come through. I am just now letting my brain meander where it wants be it color or no. In fourth grade, this girl said she liked my bracelet so I took it off and offered it to her. She was incredibly uncomfortable and started pointing me out as a “freak”. Very few material positions really mean anything to me, they never have. When I played with my Barbies I would create these fantastical adventures that were so complicated I got my guy friends to play become involved; they wanted to see where the story would end up.

Also, if this isn’t telling of what my childhood was like, I don’t know what is. Instead of playing house, my best friend and I would play bartender. We would take turns mixing soda and “talking grown up talk” and such.

High school was incredibly hard for me. I hung out with “the wrong crowd” (dude, today I am the quotation mark queen today) but never really participated with their activities. I never had sex, a half bottle of tequila made me wary of alcohol for a long time, and I’d never snuck out that often. I of course indulged in the “hippy lettuce” but stopped once I found my mom and dad’s stash. My parents were never around and the only time they were you could be sure there would incredibly loud arguments. It was always about money. My mom would go on these absurd shopping sprees (gee I wonder what THAT’S a symptom of…) and we didn’t have the money to cover a third of her whims. I would usually end up hiding underneath my covers or in my closet because one of them would always come in and end up taking their anger out on me.

Now, I’ll be the first to say my childhood wasn’t that bad. However, I tend to think in extreme terms. I wasn’t like a child called it, and I wasn’t starving or locked in a room some where. But I’m accepting that a lot, if not all of my issues stem from them. A lot of what I think is inconceivably wrong. I am in the process of re-learning EVERYTHING I know. I have to learn to switch off the vile voice in my head that criticizes everything I do. I just learned this weekend that it is not “normal” to have this voice all the time. I started crying because I always thought that everyone had this voice and I just wasn’t strong enough to stop it. I now have the hope that one day I can switch it off and just be me.

Speaking of being me, I always had trouble fitting in. I would like so many different activities people couldn’t place a label on me and it drove them nuts. In high school I would hang out with the “losers” but be friends with some of the most straight-laced people I ever met. I was a total drama geek but wasn’t in many plays. I listened to electronica but went to very few raves. People tried to pigeon hole me as a “raver” or “candykid” but I didn’t try ecstasy until I was out of high school. I also loved classical and alternative music. High school is where you learn to place labels on people. They’re all supposed to have a certain niche that they fit in. I never really did. My parents never encouraged me to be myself so I hid a lot. I do these weird abstract drawings and when I showed my grandma who lives up in Canada she sent me these amazing water color pencils for Christmas. I still have them. They’re almost untouched because I treasure the fact that someone encouraged me to do something.

Well, I’m sick of trying to be a certain type of person. I’ve been obsessed with trying to be more “hipster like” because I envied their ability to just be. But as I meet more and more of them I realize that most of what they do is for other people. They’ve spent thousands of dollars on college and do nothing with the degree. They bitch and moan about their lives but do nothing to improve them. The only time they ever take action or participate in something is if it threatens the way they live. Now, I’m not saying that all of them are like this. This is just something I’ve been noticing more and more with the people that I come across.

Fuck that.

I want to be me for me. I want to make the music that’s in my head and not tell myself I’m too old to start it (I’m 25). There is so much stress in our society to do everything while you’re young. Take Britney Spears for example. They said she was washed up before she reached 30. It’s fricken ridiculous. You’re supposed to act a certain way at a certain age because that’s what the norm does. Screw it. I’m not going to go with the norm and I’m not going to go against it. I’m going to be me for me.

This weekend I got my hair dyed purple and brown. I’m not a punk, I didn’t do it to be a badass. I did it because it’s the only color I’ve never really had in my hair. I work in the financial district and man oh man did some heads turn this morning. But instead of feeling self conscious I just grinned. I like to have crazy colors in my hair. We have the ability to have the color of sunsets on our heads but people are afraid to because they’re afraid of being looked down on.

pfffffffffffffffft.

I’m learning to not care what other people think of me. I have amazing friends that think I’m awesome just the way I am. I will admit that lately I feel like I’m not living up to their expectations of awesome but… that’s completely irrational (me irrational? Surely you jest….). They like the fact I laugh like I’m choking, or will get people to dance on an empty floor by dancing like a tard. They like the weird jibber jabber that comes out of my mouth and my quirky akwardness around attractive boys. They like me for me. The like when I’m not playing for a crowd, when I’m not trying to be a people pleaser. They like what they saw when I let them truly see who I am.

And that my friends is what makes this whole world worth it. That’s what keeps me going when I’m at my lowest low. I have made a family out of complete strangers that love me for me. I can not express how incredibly grateful I am.

*note I know this isn’t all external like my last post but hey inner reflection can be good too. And you know that I will find myself in another misadventure soon… the turkeys are out to get me man. I have to prepare for the final turkey battle.

FINISH HIM! *feathers fly everywhere* Guess who’s thanksgiving dinner, bitch?

An Unquiet Mind - Part One (Originally published on 11.10.2008)

There are very few books I could not finish or had to put down because the content disturbed me. Today I began reading a book that my therapist recommended and after less than one chapter I had to put it down because I could feel tears welling in my eyes. It was a passage about the author visiting a mental hospital for the first time that got me. She had always had a fascination with medicine and sought to become a doctor one day so she volunteered at her local hospital and immersed herself in her curiosity. While visiting the wards common room, a certain woman caught her attention. She seemed stable enough to be aware of her surroundings and was braiding and unbraiding her hair. The author (whose name is Kay), approached the woman and asked her why she was there. The woman’s answer was that when she was five, her parents put a pinball machine in her head. The red balls told her when to laugh, the blue ones told her when to be silent and keep away from other people; the green ones told her she should start multiplying by three. Every few days a silver ball would make its way through the pins of the machine. When Kay asked her what the silver ball meant the woman suddenly went blank and reverted back to staring off into space. The author was intrigued and terrified by the sadness and insanity that was captured in that woman’s eyes. She never thought that one day she’d look in the mirror and see the same thing.

The author also talked about her older sister and how she had terrible black moods and never seemed to be comfortable in her own skin. She was hyper aware of everything around her and though she could be quite charming her highs and lows affected everyone around her. Right away a part of me tightened. When I was a child, I was always living in extremes. When my friend Donald caught hit by a car, I ran to his house and calmly explained to his mother that she needed to call 911. I was so calm that she didn’t believe me at first. I had no reaction to watching my best friend get hit by a car. On the other extreme, I was at my grandmother’s house when I decide to hook myself to the long chain that they used for the dogs. I promptly began to panic and started screaming and crying. All I had to do was unhook myself. My father eventually came out and bewildered he unhooked me and walked back to the house.

That was my first panic attack. I believe I was about 8.

I always thought that what I felt was something I could control it. That I was just being dramatic or letting my imagination get to me. I thought that I wasn’t strong enough to control my own emotions. Reading this book is unraveling everything I know. I still struggle with the idea that I am bipolar. I still think that it’s a weakness in my make up. I thought that my extremes when I was a teenager were just hormones. That’s what my parents taught me so that’s what I believed. But it never stopped. When I was 19 I was still living in extremes and I was surrounded by people that didn’t understand that there was something wrong with me. They constantly told me to stop freaking out, or accused me of doing irrational things on purpose. I’m just beginning to understand that I truly couldn’t control myself. I thought that when I was rocking back and forth in my room, crying hysterically and wanting to die, it was due to hormones and I was just too weak to control them. So I began to hide everything. I let it stew in me for years until it finally boiled over and I could no longer control anything.

I am just now accepting that I am not weak. I am just wired differently than most people.

I tried to turn to religion for answers. My mother is a “born again Christian” and would claim that when I lashed out, demons were controlling me and I needed to be stronger and ask Jesus for help. I tried praying for God to “fix me” and nothing ever happened. When I moved to San Francisco I attended a church with my friend. Well… it wasn’t really a church, they called it a “spiritual center” but there was still a giant cross hanging above a casually dressed man who was talking about God. He was an inspiring speaker and I became giddy with the idea that I could be fixed, that I just had to pray and genuinely believe that Jesus Christ was my savior. I called my mother, ecstatically explaining that I had found God and I was going to be ok. She claimed that I was so happy because the “holy spirit” was in me. It was actually a bout of hypomania.

When the feeling didn’t last and I sunk into another depressive episode, I prayed and prayed and prayed. Nothing. I’d convince myself I wasn’t trying hard enough and began donating to the church and a man who claimed he talked to God - a prophet. But I started to question. How could a religion that bases itself on love being all powerful segregate certain groups and claim that they were “going to hell” or judge their beliefs? Wouldn’t a being that was all powerful base his/her decision on the person’s heart and intentions? Why should how much a person donated to the church matter? Couldn’t you just do a good act because you wanted to and not for some future reward? If it was based on love why did you have to believe in a man being your savior? Couldn’t you just believe that love is the ultimate savior because that’s why the man died - for our sins. He took it upon himself because he loved everyone so much that he was willing to die in order for us to “go to a better place”. What about the people that died before him?

The reason the passage about the woman disturbed me so much is because there is no way to help someone that is that far gone. You can’t blame them for not living in this reality because they just can’t. Something in their brain isn’t firing right. It’s not that they’re not trying because who in the hell would want that? Who would choose that life? They can’t suddenly “find God” and be cured. I am absolutely terrified by losing reality because I have been to the very edge of it. I’ve seen the look of insanity in my own eyes and was absolutely powerless to stop it. Whenever I walk down the street and see a homeless person mumbling to themselves my stomach drops. I can identify with them. I know that they don’t have the option of helping themselves because they can’t even grasp the concept that something is wrong.

I am just learning that something is wrong. That I’m not copping out and claiming to be mentally ill to justify my actions, because why would anyone choose this? Why? Why would you want to have absolutely no control over your own fucking brain? I over-react or under-react because that is how I genuinely feel. I’m not pretending to be crazy. Why the fuck would I want to do that? I am so hyper aware of other’s opinions of me. Why would I want them to see that? I thought maybe I'm just trying to seek pity, but who wants pity? Who wants someone to think they're pathetic?

I’m going to chronicle my realizations while reading this book, An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison, because I hope that someone, like me, reads this blog and realizes “Holy shit, I’m not alone”. I hope they understand how they are isn’t their fault. I hope that I can realize that one day too.
Justify Full

Feeling Safe (Originally published on 11.06.2008)

This is all on my mind recently due to a dream I had last night. But first, a little bit of back-story. My mother has always decided when I not longer needed something by redecorating my room. I know this sounds strange but let me break it down for you. When I was about 8 she decided that I needed to be more girly and sent me to stay with my friend for the weekend. When I came back my room was painted purple and I had a canopy bed. All my “non girly toys” were packed away and my Barbies (that I usually used for target practice or to act out my stories) were out on display. I reacted in the way that I knew she wanted me too. But when they left me alone I curled up on my canopy bed with all its useless pillows and cried. I just wanted a space that was mine. So from that day forth I would find a spot outside of my house and claim it as my own. Usually it’s a place surrounded by trees so I can feel hidden and safe. When I was about 11 my mother left my father and me (my sister had moved in with her step father because she could no longer deal with my mother lashing out at her) and we moved to another town and I got to claim my own room. Then my mother came back. Once more I was kicked out of my room for a weekend and all my toys were packed away because “I was getting too old for them”. I had trained myself not to care anymore. it didn’t matter as long as I had SOME WHERE to feel safe. I was never really allowed to close my door until I was about 18. But even then she’d walk in unannounced and start picking up my room claiming I was a pig and lazy for not having everything in its place. This would be a good time to point out that my mother is OCD. Everything had to be perfect or she’d flip out. When I vacuumed the lines in the carpet had to be straight or she’d make me vacuum again. Pretty much the whole time I lived with my family my mother made sure to let me know that I should be grateful to have a place to live and demanded that I keep the house clean. Yet I was always chastised for being lazy because I didn’t dust the tops of the cupboards or some other inane thing. I was also never allowed to put anything on my walls unless it was with scotch tape. Since we all know how well that sticks, I moved to putting random things on my dressers and tables. She flipped out about that as well. When I moved out to San Francisco I first lived with a boy that didn’t want me there, then moved in with a psycho who’d completely disregard the meager sliding piece of plastic that was my “door” and just walk into my room. Then I moved to the Hugo House. I *finally* had a place that was mine. The first couple of months I lived there I slept on a mat and the only furniture I had were 2 ikea dressers and a paper lamp.

Then my mother came out to visit me. She insisted that we went shopping to decorate my room. I didn’t want her to spend the money, but mostly I didn’t want to give her ammo for the arguments that would come later. Any time I entered an argument with her she’d use the things that she bought me as a way to guilt trip me into submission. I never ASKED for anything. I stopped asking for gifts by the time I was 13 because I knew better. Once again, she invaded my space and made sure to leave pieces of herself behind. It took me a good year before I felt safe in my room again and that was only after I rearranged into what *I* wanted. Since this is a city I don’t really have a secret spot I can call my own because going into the park at night isn’t exactly the smartest decision. So my room is the only thing I have. So if you’re still confused as to why I flipped out the way I did when "she" disrespected it… and yeah that is something that can change overnight. It's not a mental illness, it's a matter of picking up after yourself. You can make time for it.

Now to the dream. I didn’t really sleep that night due to tossing and turning thoughts in my head so when the dream started I was a bit confused because there were so many elements from reality placed in it. My mother was staying with me and each of my walls were covered with various themes. One was pooh-bear, another was filled with band posters, and another was filled with beautiful artwork in glass frames. She came into my room, drunk and I suggested that I should probably re-decorate my room and she immediately volunteered. I kicked her out of my room and she huffed herself upstairs. My roommate came opened her door and asked me what all the yelling was about. I explained that my mother wanted to decorate my room to which she replied “Isn’t she drunk?”. The rest of my dream is a bit of a blur but I do remember there being a strange aura around my mother. It was black and seemed to shadow everything behind her.

It seems that recently all I’ve been doing is removing her presence from my life. Trying to figure out where her labels ended and my thoughts begin. I don’t want to claim that my childhood and past was that bad because I had food, shelter and nurture up to a point. I’m just trying to figure out what is real and what isn’t. There is so much I don’t remember and I finally know why. I was in a state of hypomania. I would retreat into my head whenever my mother would start hurling insults at me. My father added his own to the foray but as soon as I was about 15 he stopped with the sudden outbursts of anger and we actually started building a pretty solid relationship. The catalyst for that was showing him a poem I had written for English class. I won’t post it because it’s so incredibly cheesy but I know that it definitely touched something in him and he looked me straight in the eye and apologized. Maybe that’s why there is still so much hurt leftover from my mother. She’s apologized so many times, insincerely because she truly doesn’t understand the consequences of her actions. She still doesn’t get it. I don’t know if she ever will and I have to accept that. I just wish all this baggage would just drop away so I could finally just LIVE MY LIFE. I wish I had a reset button so I could clear away my cache of my past. It just sucks because no matter how much she hurt me… I want my mom back. The one that would take care of me when I was sick or the one I could make laugh so hard she’d wet herself. Or the one that would just hug me when I was crying uncontrollably. It hard to make sense of things when you realize just can’t just dismiss one side or the other.

I want to let go of it, I truly do. But I have to relearn everything I know. I'm one of those people that just wants to do something immediately. I'm terrible at practicing and I feel like I'm behind in so many ways. But that's just another part of relearning things. I shouldn't be placing these unreasonable expectations on myself. I guess I'm just used to it. Perhaps that's why confidant people put me at ill ease. Ah, but that's another post.

Phony (Originally published on 11.03.2008)

Sometimes I feel like a phony when reading other peoples bipolar blogs. I never actually carried out my thoughts of suicide and was never hospitalized. I honestly should have been at a couple of points but when I was living with my family they’d just say I was going through a “dark phase” and nicknamed me Poe. It just hit me recently how cruel that was. I have hundreds of pages in my journals begging for help knowing that my mother was reading them. When I confronted her about it she laughed in my face claiming that I was just being dramatic. How could you ever tell someone who is asking for help that? How? I learned from a young age to keep everything in, to never show someone that they’ve hurt you. I can hear the most hurtful things and not bat an eye but on the inside I crumble. If your 19 year old daughter hasn’t left her room in 3 days, wouldn’t you be concerned? But then again how could I expect much else from her. She’s in complete denial about being mentally ill. She doesn’t comprehend that when she lost her job, it was due to the fact that she is mentally ill. She’d tell her patients all about her life and end up talking with them for HOURS. She’d show up for work hours late and the deeper she delved into oxycotin she’d slump over in the middle of appointments. She wouldn’t sleep for days on end and lash out at anyone near her.

I feel like a phony because I just kept everything inside. No one knew I was a cutter because I only cut deep on my hips and lower stomach. I’d only scratch my nails down my arms and it was easy to claim I had a mishap with a bush due to my oh so graceful nature. Then one of my good friend’s brother committed suicide and I watched her family fall apart. I promised myself I would never put my family or friends through that. So I would just hide how I felt, everyday and would only let go in room. Usually I’d hide in the closet and just sob uncontrollably rocking back and forth chanting, this will stop, this will stop.

But in the last two years I wasn’t able to hide it anymore. It started seeping though my cracks and the panic attacks started. Then the days where I’d be totally unresponsive and call in sick and just lay in bed all day, not eating, not sleeping… just sitting there staring. I finally tried to seek help but the therapist I went to basically told me she didn’t have time to see me after 2 sessions. She said I needed to see someone 3 times a week and go on medication immediately. At that point I wasn’t ready to consider medication for whatever was wrong with me.

Then it got worse. After a very public panic attack on muni I sought out help again. This time I lucked out and found a great woman who has helped me in so many ways. The person I am now is the real me. I try and not hold everything inside (something I’m still working on) and I wear my heart on my sleeve. If I’m not feeling well I will let people know. It’s still hard because not many people understand why I can’t just snap out of a depression and just be happy. They’ll tell me it could be worse. Hell, I say that all the time. But my switches are broken. I can’t just turn things on and off.

On my good days I manage to convince myself that I’m just fine, that I don’t need medication. That I’m not bipolar. But then a mood hits and I’m back where I started from. I’m on a medication now that has seemed to stabilize me and it’s amazing how clear I can think now that I’m not hiding everything. I deal with things as they come and don’t push it away to deal with later. I know that people could see through my façade before but even then it was misinterpreted as something deliberate because they didn’t understand and at that time neither did I. I never want to use bipolar as a scapegoat for my actions so I will take responsibly for everything I’ve done whether or not it was intentional. I also don’t want to apologize for being bipolar. This is something I’m just recently getting over. I apologize for things I can not control not matter HOW MUCH I wish I could. I just still carry around that idea what I can control my own brain but I have to accept that I really can’t (ugh that still feels like a cop out). Also, just because it seems that I’m dealing with it remarkably well, please keep in mind that it is sheer stubbornness that has gotten me this far.

So yo, I’m bipolar and I’m trying, tis all I can do.WOO WOO!

2 comments:

Mace Elaine said...

Dork. I give you a hundred digital hugs and kisses. I'm so proud of your progress, and I love reading your blog.

+/- said...

you've always been able to differentiate between blaming things on being bipolar, and explaining what's happening to you. the only people that see it as an excuse, are the people that don't understand bipolar disorder.

i like the term "disorder" by the way. it makes me see your brain like a tangled ball of string. so it makes sense when things don't come out the way you'd like, or that things come out when they shouldn't.