How many of us truly understand the final dance scene in Silver Linings Playbook? How many of us realize that it is an interpretation of Bipolar? That it symbolizes the dance we all do on a daily basis? How many people actually believe that “normal” people understood that part of the movie? Personally, I believe that everyone without a mental illness thought the final dance scene was disconnected, sporadic and made no sense. Hahahahahaha. Typical. How many people in America a

If you asked me three months ago if I could be still with myself, the answer would have been a strong, harsh no.  Three months ago today I was sent home from Princeton House Inpatient facility after spending forty three days there.  I was scared, unsure and still depressed, but no longer a danger to myself, as was the requirement for discharge. I barely remember coming home or beginning my DBT program the following day.  Three months, however is a long time and in that time,

Acceptance in human psychology is a person’s assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it, protest (https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=acceptance). I’m having a difficult time with the acceptance part of my disease.  I actually feel as if I need to be transcribing a eulogy to my former self, because that woman I loved is long gone and despite all my hard work over the p

Tonight was my first “official” night out amongst tons of people I know. My husband and I went out to support our school’s local PTO Tricky Tray. If you have not ever had the luxury of attending such a festival, let me try to recreate the picture for you. First of all, every year ours is held in the local fire hall. As you enter, directly across the room, over the vast array of folded tables, you see the bar, which is a somewhat makeshift wood paneled bar, manned by two of th

Triggers, triggers, everywhere. Triggers, triggers, should I care? On Monday at my outpatient program, we had a class called Understanding Triggers. There are five types of triggers according to Boon, Steele and van der hart, in their book Coping with Trauma Related Dissociation (2011). The triggers are: Time Related Triggers, Place Related Triggers, Relational Triggers, Internal Triggers and Sensory Triggers. The trigger I most related to was The Relational Trigger. Boo

Tomorrow is my first full day home alone since returning from the hospital and I am a nervous wreck. I am still far from well, and actually just had a meltdown tonight over picking up my boys from the sitter tomorrow.  Although my moods are a bit more stable, tonight I feel like I am slipping downward again. I am fighting it and trying my DBT skills that I have learned in outpatient, but they really do nothing for me in the moment. Is anyone familiar with DBT? It is all new t

Everyone has a story to tell. I met a gentleman while I was in the hospital that heard me talking about my blog, and he approached me to see if I could help him write his life’s story. Of course I told him I would, so we got to work forming an outline. We swapped email addresses and phone numbers when he was discharged and I do have all intention to help him, but it got me thinking. Why don’t I write my story myself? It’s not like I don’t have one to tell.  Personally things

I figured I would share some of the poetry I wrote while I was hospitalized. It certainly captures the velocity at which my moods were changing. I hope you like them, especially considering they were written with a smuggled pen after lights out and a sweatshirt skirting my bed lamp so they would think I was sleeping soundly. Don’t quite know what I could have done with a pen, but the patients were not allowed to have them. In time you will find out just how seriously they tak

During one of our journaling groups, I was asked to write about what I have gotten thus far from Princeton House (the hospital in which I spent 43 days).  At the time, I had already been there 38 days.  I think they were looking for concrete answers, but you know me, I know of no such thing. I realize when I went in I promised all my readers a day by day account of my stay, never realizing it was going to be so very long. I figured I would share some of my most memorable expe

I came to the realization today that I can no longer try to battle this disease alone. After dropping my children off at school, I felt limp and dead inside as I pulled over to the side of the road. Prior to leaving to bring them to school, my husband and I had words. He told me how we are all living in hell, and I quickly informed him that no one was living in hell more than I.  I yelled at him that he should try living in my brain, the brain which has turned on me and const

Where does one begin to forgive oneself? How does one undo the wrongs one has committed and erase the pain one has inflicted on those one loves? My therapist suggested I start to try and forgive myself a few weeks ago at one of our sessions, but I have no clue as to where I should start. How can I forgive myself when I feel there are so many others that need to forgive me first? Do I apologize to my children for disappearing and letting this disease kidnap their mother? Do I

I met a good friend of mine for breakfast this morning. She is well aware of my recent struggles, so much so that she actually brought me her old punching bag (No, not her husband!), so that I could take out some of my extra energy by using it.  While I waited for her to arrive at the diner where we usually meet, I called another good friend of mine to talk for a while. Well, I did most of the talking because I am so revved up today! I rambled on and on about my therapy appoi

I wish you would have introduced yourself earlier in my life. Perhaps you tried and I turned a cold shoulder because I was trying to run away from the overwhelming feelings I experienced starting at the age of ten. Was that you who intensified my first broken heart when the boy I liked in fourth grade did not give me a Valentine and I couldn’t stop crying? I was crying so hard and inconsolably that the school nurse had to call my mother to come pick me up from school.  I reme

The gifts are unwrapped and piled neatly under my tree, some completely untouched. I sit in my living room, staring at the tree, which is now dry and depleted after one month of standing, despite the nourishing water. Needles rain down each time I try to rearrange the presents so it does not look like a clustered mess. I feel a kindred spirit with my once beautiful Christmas tree.  I, too, am depleted from my last week of running like crazy to make up for my lack of holiday s

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer. My dreams are in color. People talk. I see faces and what people are wearing, and when I wake in the morning I can recall minute details that astonish my husband. I love when I have good dreams, like the one I had once that Eminem was coming back after he finished his bus route to take me on a date, but I absolutely despise the nightmares, such as the one I had last night. Last night I dreamt of trying to protect my children and four puppies

The Jehovah’s showed up at my door this morning to spread the word. The door bell rang and I knew there was no hiding, as I have a huge bay window in front of my home and uncharacteristically, the blinds were open. I contemplated answering versus not answering and just decided to open the door. What did I care that I hadn’t showered in two days and was in my pajama pants and sweater without a bra? They’re non-judgmental, right? They were here to save me, to spread the good wo

In June of 1995, I had my first exposure to a mental health ward.  When I was 23 years old, I ended up committing myself to a locked unit, one year after I experienced the traumatic loss of a child I had carried for 8 ½ months. I naively took a week’s vacation from work to admit myself, with the belief that I would receive intensive counseling and get “over it.” I was at a point where I could not sit still. I rearranged the furniture in my apartment on an almost daily basis.

For someone who feels things so deeply, whether love, pain, anguish, disgust, anger or hatred, there is nothing more unnatural than feeling numb.  As a teenager, I can remember driving in a friend’s car, listening to Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb,” and today, I can’t even begin to imagine such a thing.  Less than one week ago, I wrote the poem below. My emotions were beyond intense, but yet, I still felt alive. Read my words. Feel my pain and anger. If I tried to write that

Yesterday, after reading my first post, my lifelong best friend called me and began to cry because she said that she felt awful that I was feeling the way I did. Interestingly, my first reaction was to tell her to stop and beg her not to cry. I was not writing to make people cry. I created this blog to keep me from crying. But then I began to think about my reaction. Who am I to tell someone not to cry if they feel sad or sorry for me or anyone for that matter? Crying is a

Sitting here at the age of 43, mother to three beautiful children, and married to a supportive and loving husband who’s been my best friend for the past 16 years, I never in a million years could have fathomed that I would be so lost and debilitated by such profound sadness, hatred and anger. Every day, I wake overwhelmed, confronted with two choices, either get up and get dressed and act like a mom and wife, or disappear to a place no one would ever find me. Disappearing see