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 past two months, I realized, she is still missing.
Last night was a blaring reminder that I am not who I used to be. I used to love crowds, talking to everyone and being funny and entertaining. I liked that me, actually, I loved that me. Don’t get me wrong, at times there were parts I despised, I LOVED ME. And I feel that as soon as I sought help for my inability to manage my life this fall, following yet, another trauma, I am condemned for life to a diagnosis which requires me to be on medications that prevent that me (the old me) to exist any longer. I am even finding I am having a harder time trying to compose my blog or come up with funny topics. I don’t want to be a slow, kind, polite form of me. I want the one who would speak her mind, even if it was too rapid for some to keep up. I loved the rebellious side that would say to hell with it and do shots at the bar. I was a diehard flirt with everyone (including my husband), and one hell of a pool player. And when I laughed, that genuine laughter carried through a room, sometimes so much so that my husband would shoot me a look, but everyone loved me, so as far as his “quiet down” look would go, I would just dust it off.
Now, I roam my hallways and look at all my family pictures. (I am addicted to pictures.) Could that Lydia that was smiling have been this sad and screwed up? At the time it did not feel that way. Maybe the doctor needs to interview my friends and family who may have more insight into my behaviors and history, because my mind or perhaps, my illness keeps telling me I was so much better the old way.
I want me back. I really, really want me back. I feel as if I am out somewhere in orbit and one morning I am going to wake to find some cruel joke has been played on me. I took my medications again this morning, but here I am again, questioning their necessity. Maybe I will talk to my doctor tomorrow when I see her about finding meds that help me feel like my old self as much as possible. I also question if there is not some other underlying issue as to why I can’t be happy. Does my marriage need work? Do I not feel accepted? God knows, I haven’t been shown enough love from my daddy (strong sarcasm noted here)! I don’t know. I just feel very frustrated. I expected the answers with all the hospital time I did and I am still coming up empty.
I want my friends to treat me like Lydia. I don’t want people pussy footing around me, or sheltering me. I am a big girl. I don’t need a bubble around me, and I certainly don’t need babysitters. I know it all comes from care and compassion, but it makes me feel worse. It makes me feel incapable.
Again, I revert back to Silver Linings Playbook. I feel like Tiffany in the diner with Pat when she flips out because he said he was not in the same category as she was. That moment when it dawns on her as to what he is really saying is one of my favorites! “Oh wait, so you think I am crazier than you…ahahahahahahaha” I believe that every person on earth suffers from some form of mental illness, it just depends on the severity and how badly it affects your life, and if it’s not mental illness, it’s addiction. Each and every one of us whom has come out and admitted that we have a mental illness does not deserve to be shunned, treated differently or handled with “kid gloves.” I am still me and I just want to be treated as such. I am ME, dammit! I am ME, aren’t I? I AM ME, STILL ME, lost in this mess somewhere. Don’t tip toe around me. Fight alongside me and help reel me back in from wherever it is that I have gone.