August 9, 2010

August 9, 2010

One week ago, today, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I. Pretty scary stuff, but knowing that there is a name for what I have and it is able to be "treated" makes it a tad bit less scary. I have known since I was little (maybe 5-ish) that I was different from the rest of my family. Dad was level headed, hard working, never minced words but always stood for what he believed in. He was amazingly creative (which I honestly believe I get from him) and knew a lot about a lot of things. He always seemed like a gruff man to those who would meet him in a social setting and would ALWAYS let my mom do the talking. I think deep down he knew that even though he was a strong man, my mom always kind of made him a stronger man. Mom has always been a social butterfly. She was/is your classic PTA mom and a bit of a stage mom too (but in the good way... never the over zealous crazed mom). Lots of fun to be around and a real sense of independence about her. She never has been one to need someone to hold her up... she does that pretty well on her own. It's not that she never needed my dad, she did and does, but she's always been good at doing things on her own. My sister is pretty much the same as my mom. Although, I don't think she really knew that until she moved out of Brandon. She's always had tons of friends and excelled at most things that she really wanted in life. She's good, really good, at being a stay-at-home mom. I secretly call her the "learning mom". Even though she's all about taking the girls somewhere pretty much every day... it's always a learning trip. She'll make a fine PTA president someday! She's a good mixture of my mom and dad. She's funny, smart, ambitious and has actually learned to cook foods that don't come in a box. Someone to most certainly look up to even though she rarely looks down long enough to see anyone below her. I don't remember much about my grandfather. I do remember our bond. I remember his eyes. He could look at me and I would know no matter what I had done (or was thinking about doing) he would kind of just brush it off. I remember he loved animals. He told me so much about so many different kinds of animals. Probably where I get my undying love of all things animal related. Even though my grandmother died when I was 16, I don't think I ever really took the time to stop and see her for who she was. Don't get me wrong, she was abnormally cool. The kind of grandmother you want to have. Smart too. She did the Sunday crossword puzzle in ink! I don't do crossword puzzles... too much fluttery stuff on one piece of paper. She, like my mom and my sister, was always involved in something. She was the kind of pretty that you want to be... beautifully tanned skin, dark eyes and an absolutely beautiful smile. I don't know much about my dads parents. My grandfather died before I was born and my sister and I were never close to my grandmother. And then there is me. Different is probably an understatement. It's hard knowing as a little kid that you don't fit in especially in your own family. It seems like most of my life I have been trying to get their approval but then I mess it up somehow. I never really felt good at any one thing. I loved softball and in my head I honestly believed I was one of the best ones. I knew I wasn't a Patsy, Rachel, Candy, Amy, etc... but I thought if they could add one more name to the list it would be me. Nothing shocked me more than when I was trying to decide between playing softball in high school or trying out for squad and I was talking to my dad about it. His answer was that the other girls would get to play more and I more than likely wouldn't make the first cut. I was devastated. Was it the truth? Maybe, but I never tried. Instead I was on squad. Not a bad thing... just different. I was one of the better ones with a flag and pretty descent in dancing (much to my own surprise), but I never had the passion for it like I did playing ball. I told him years later how crushed I was and he still held firm that I made the right decision. I could have (and should have) made co-head my junior year and head my senior year. I screwed up. I missed a practice that I shouldn't have. I remember Ms Fussell calling me out of class my sophomore year (towards the end) and telling me what a mistake I had made and that it had impacted choices she had made for the next years squad. I knew what she meant and she knew that I knew too. I took it with a grain of salt and had my own private pity party. Junior year when she announced there would be no co-head I thought...you never let anything go!!!! Not true (well, mostly). She still had me making up half time routines and competition routines during first period my senior year. I still had to teach and coordinate all movements. She always introduced me as her second in charge but she knew it would drive me crazy NOT to give me that title.

It's hard to describe what my mind has been like since I was little. Erratic, irrational, fluttery, half there. I have always gone from 0 to 60 in no time at all and then there are days where I literally couldn't drag myself out of bed. I can sleep for 10 hours and still be tired or I can sleep for 3 hours and feel more energized than ever before. When I'm happy... I'm overly happy. But when I'm upset I feel like there is no control in my head. There is never a way to predict how my day is going to go because something very small and trivial knocks me for a loop. I'm not sure if I've ever felt normal because I don't think I know what normal feels like. I have known since I was little that I was good at making friends... just not keeping them. I used to be good in a large group of people (always praying they didn't single me out for anything) but I have never been good with one on one situations. I don't like being alone. Being alone means, to me, that my thoughts will get to me. I don't like my thoughts... I am constantly at battle with them. I hate them actually. My thoughts never leave me alone. They run ramped through my brain and sometimes make me like I wish I had an off button. They flash and beep and never ever stop. A lot of times I feel paranoid like someone is going to get me (or something I have). That usually goes away after having something for a while but my paranoia gets bad sometimes. I don't mind messiness. It should probably bother me but it doesn't. I kind of think it matches my brain... all messed up but I know where everything is if I need it. Sometimes I see things that aren't there. I guess they are hallucinations. They don't bother me either. You kind of get used to things like that when you've been this way for a while. Although, sometimes I don't know if they are real and CAN'T ask anyone because I hate the "you're crazy" look. I used to think I had a bad memory. Something would happen and when I was asked about it I would have no memory of it. Slowly afterwards I would. Almost like you cut a picture of it up and then start putting it back together little by little. Somethings I still don't remember, but I'm sure I've done them because I was told I did. I sometimes (more than sometimes) make my friendships out to be more than they are. Not always and never with guys, just friends. I know I'm doing it but then I start to believe it. I know I only have a couple of friends and I have to deal with that, but it makes me feel better when people think I'm like a super human friend! I can spend money faster than anyone I know. It's kind of like an addiction that you know you have but can't stop. I like spending money, it makes me feel better. I can't stand more than one noise at a time. It will make me bonkers. I pause sometimes in hopes that the noise will stop. It competes too much with my head. My thoughts are shouting at me to make it stop and sometimes I can't. I just can't.

People won't get this. They can't. They don't have arguing thoughts or irrational fears. They have normal lives. Normal thoughts. Normal fears. I so badly want to be one of those people. I want to enjoy what is good and get past what is bad in life. I want to be normal. I won't be... ever. I have a mental illness. They gave me pills. Pills that I hate. Pills that I know will eventually help me lead a more normal life. But I have to take them the rest of my life. Not until this goes away, not until I feel normal, not until the thoughts stop screaming at me, not until the messiness that is my brain organizes itself... but the rest of my life. I hate Bipolar. I hate my DNA for that one little second when it was forming my brain that it lapsed and something got all messed up.