Guest bloggers, and an update

Just a quick update. Bipolar Whispers blog is fully back up and running. As you can see I have changed the theme/layout, all blog posts have the updated signature, some have been edited and some have been deleted.

I have added my social media information:

Facebook
Instagram
Twitter
Email: bipolarwhispers@gmail.com

Interested in being a guest blogger on Bipolar Whispers, email me at bipolarwhispers@gmail.com

I did this a few times in the past and am interested in doing a few more guest posts again in the future. If this is something that interests you feel free to email me at bipolarwhispers@gmail.com .

In the blog post I can add an image or two, your blog address, social media or anything else that might be relevant.

Finally, is there something you would like to see me blog about? Comment below with any blog ideas and I will do my best to write about them.

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Bipolar as an adjective

A Bipolar journey is one of extremes, one of differences, emotions, opposites.  To me, in my eyes it is a spectrum.  The spectrum of someone with Bipolar Disorder can be so vast that many times I feel like no two of us are alike.

Yet I know we are alike.  We have similarities. We follow similar patterns.  We do similar things.  But at the same time we are different.  We do things at different levels, different planes.

Bipolar Disorder consists of so much, it is complex in design.  It is not just the adjective that today’s society has made it out to be.  It is not the the descriptive word often used in every day speech to describe someone who has a mood swing caused my something small or a remark that made someone angry.  It is not just “oh he/she is so bipolar”.  It is not just a snappy mood, or getting angry, or teenage rebellion.

For me, it is many different things at many different times.  It is flying, soaring like a bird, free.  Yet is is Chaos and frustration, destruction and despair.

How can it be all of these things, good and bad, you ask?

Anyone diagnosed with Bipolar disorder understands what I mean when I say that.  You know what it is like to feel all of those things at different times and sometimes even at the same time.

I can describe my mania with good and bad words.  I can explain the euphoric feelings of the “good” mania and then in the same breath I can describe the chaos enriched mixtures of the “bad” mania.

I can explain how in a mania or hypomania induced state I was able to go weeks on as little as 20 hours  of sleep.  How I took my cupboard doors off all of my cupboards (I have a very very large kitchen), repainted inside and out, put all new hinges on them, re hung them and changed the color of the doors, and scrubbed the knobs then then replaced everything into my cupboards in 2 days or less, when I had never done anything like that before.

I can tell you I spent hours in a mania writing some of the best writing I have ever created.

I can tell you how I made raised garden beds and planted carrots, peas, beans, potatoes, and pumpkins and I wanted to raise chickens.

I can tell you that during mania I cannot stay still.  I clean, I cook and I move around my house doing things at alarming rates.

But I can also tell you that I had to keep shaking my leg and moving my hands just to sit to eat, just to check email, just to write. Because I had to move.

I can tell you that I drove around for hours to keep my kids from seeing how bad the mania was getting, even when I truly should not have been driving.  That a friend drove around with me for hours in order to try to keep me focused enough to be able to drive.  In order to keep me in check so to speak.

I can tell you I talked so fast that my husband and closest friends were unable to understand me.  That I jumped all over the place in my conversation that my conversation was not even able to be followed.

I can tell you that I couldn’t read a book because I couldn’t understand what I was reading…but I could research raising chickens for hours on end, or whatever else I was fixated on during that particular mania.

I can tell you that what starts as the fun life of the party mania always turns into more damaging mania.

The one where the paranoia creeps in, where people on cell phones, even complete strangers are out to get me, they are being devious and are plotting something against me.

The one where those two people sitting at the coffee shop table, whom I do not even know and are sharing a laugh over a memory are really (but of course only in my mind) laughing at me.  Making fun of me.

I can tell you about the heightened senses.  About the times when colors and lights are super vivid.  When my eyes hurt because everything around me is over sharp, over focused.  Or about the times when everything is loud, even the thoughts inside my head sound like thunder.  I can tell you about the times I am so perceptive I can almost feel the earth turning.

And those…..they are just the bits and pieces of the mania.  Just the tip of an iceberg.

I can also tell you about the depression.  Not just a passing sadness, but the deep dark hell hole of despair that I am unable to dig myself out of.

I can tell you about the times I want to go to sleep and never wake up, even though I didn’t want to actually die.

I can tell you about the times I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror because I hated, loathed and despised the person looking back.

I can tell you about the times I held blades or hot lighters to my skin just to feel.  Just to get a release.  About the times I pulled my hair or scratched my arms and legs while hiding because I needed to feel but I was unable to cut or burn at that particular moment in time.

I can tell you about the times I sat contemplating suicide.  Just seconds away from downing more meds than I even care to mention, or slicing a knife across my wrists, or jumping in front of a moving transport truck.

I can tell you about the actual suicide attempt, about the hospital stays when the mania or depression gets too bad.

I can tell you about the countless medications I have taken to try to tame the Bipolar Beast. 

I can tell you about the times I don’t want to get out of bed and the times I don’t want to even get into bed.  About the times I don’t want anyone to touch me and about the times I need someone to hold me tight, to hold me together because I am falling apart.

And these are just some of the things I can tell you.

There are mixed states and manias, depressions, medication changes, hospitalizations, complications to medications (scary ones), times I drink alcohol just to feel, times the anxiety is so bad I feel like I am dying and the times I actually feel crazy.

But even though all of these things are a part of me, a part of my disorder…..they are not all of me.   I am so much more.

I have periods of “normal” mood, no mania, no depression. Periods where I work and become a functional part of society.

For me Bipolar Disorder is a spectrum with extreme mania on one end and extreme depression on the other.  But in the middle of the two are milder forms of the mania, hypomania, milder forms of depression, mixed episodes and of course the “normal” periods.

Because I am not just made up of the adjective Bipolar that people like to use.  Bipolar disorder is so much more.  So the next time you say “I am so Bipolar”  or “She is so Bipolar” perhaps you should take a moment to read some information on what real Bipolar disorder is all about, because I am fairly certain you won’t use it as an adjective after that.

Zoloft Crazy?

That moment when…

the depression is so bad you feel like you have failed everyone and everything and as much as you want to go to sleep and not wake up you have to keep on breathing.

Such was me a few weeks ago, me before coming off the Zoloft.

The Zoloft that made life worst.  The Zoloft that made me feel crazy.  The Zoloft that made me want to harm myself.  The Zoloft that made me put the breaks on while driving because I thought someone was crossing the road and when I blinked no one was there (among other stories), The Zoloft that made me dream dreams that I thought were real, absolute. The Zoloft that did not mix well with alcohol.  The Zoloft that did not let me sleep but yet made me feel like I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up. The Zoloft that made me paranoid.  The Zoloft that changed me.

Now I am off the Zoloft, and in just a couple of weeks I already feel a ton better, not ‘normal me’ better, but not Zoloft crazy.

Back one one of my old faithful medications, Tegertol.

Bipolar Whispers is 2

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Bipolar Whispers Blog is 2.

I cannot believe it has been 2 years since I first started the Bipolar Whispers blog.  I started this in a Manic high to let out frustrations to write to my hearts content and to express things I could not even begin to express in my ‘real’ life.

This past year was a lot slower than the first 6 months or so of the blog, but lately I have been trying to get some content out.  Thanks to everyone who has been reading for the past two years and thanks to all my new readers.

Be sure to read through my older content, you will find a lot of good information and a lot of soulful and heart felt writings there. 

Lets hope that I can get back to the basic reasons for starting this blog and make year 3 fantastic.

Sometimes.

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Sometimes the despair and destruction and chaos inside is more real than the conversation or situation that I am in.  To the point where I forget things because of the devastation that I am going through at that particular time.  Such is the story of Friday/Saturday.

I know it was bad, horrible, I know I bared my soul, but I cannot remember most of it.

Please don’t, Please do.

Please don’t underestimate me because of my illness.

Please don’t Judge me because of my illness.

Please don’t feel threatened by me because of my illness.

Please don’t leave me out because of my illness.

Please don’t forget the good times when the bad times of my illness rear its ugly head.

Please don’t confuse my indifference about activities with me not actually wanting to do them.

Please don’t use the name of my illness`as an adjective.

Please do stand by me when I need you.

Please do remember the good times.

Please do remember that I want to be better, I do not choose to be sick.

Please do have patience with me, because often I do not have any patience for myself.

Drowning

I am underwater.  Looking up I can see a dim filtered light but I am unable to break the surface.  I am suffocating, water leaking into my lungs.  I am drowning. Sinking deeper and deeper beneath the surface.

I am only just admitting to myself that I am depressed.

It has been coming for a while, maybe it has even been here for a while.  But I would not admit that there was a problem.  I have been hiding it from everyone, including myself.

I don’t want to do anything, I don’t want to go anywhere and I am not sleeping well night time, and am tending to somewhat sleep in the late morning early afternoon, and even then its not good sleep.  I do not want to drag myself out of bed when I wake up.  Even when I am awake I just want to lay there and not do anything.

I feel like a failure of a mother and wife because I feel that the things my children are going to remember about me right now is the fact that I am doing these things. I should be more present.  I feel like a failure of a friend because I don’t give a shit if I go anywhere or do anything, I am letting the people closest to me down and I am so frustrated with myself.

I feel like a failure because I have went the past 9 months without medications and for the most part I was doing well.  Don’t get me wrong I am not naive, I know Bipolar disorder does not just disappear, that it would rear its ugly head at some point.

I look in the mirror and I hate the person I see.  I curse her.  She is nothing…. I am nothing.