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If you’re “funny in the head” like me, you’ve had to learn how to self-regulate – that is – evaluate your own behavior to determine whether you’re merely “in a mood” or riding the downtown express to Cookoopantsatopolis.
Outsiders cannot understand, to them the answer will always be obvious. We know better. Frequently the dividing line between eccentric and incarcerated is only a few shades of gray, and one doesn’t even notice the point at which fun has turned into funkachunkabagooboo.
To help all of you out there cursed with the responsibility of being one’s own strictest supervisor, I have devised this simple quiz which can be self-administered whenever needed. If you answer “B” to more than 5 of these questions, you’ve been boodoogelized and should get help as soon as you retrieve your clothes from the dishwasher.
Self-harm is mentioned below.
When I was at university earning my degree I was a busy girl. I was attending school full-time, working three part-time jobs and skydiving on the side. There wasn’t a lot of time for dilly-dally.
And, of course, through this I was also getting treatment for bipolar disorder. This was at a time when treatment has started becoming successful but we were still tweaking things to try and get the most from the medication. As most lab rats know, this means upping the dose.
And, one day, I was at work and suddenly found myself needing to excuse myself to the lady’s room so I could slice open my ankle.
Drat.
“The most important relationship you will ever have is the one you have with yourself.” Author unknown
Each year, Valentine’s Day seems to draw attention to the notion that love is indeed a mystery. For some, it is a day looked forward to eagerly as they await their chance to acknowledge or be acknowledged by those they love. However, for many people with adult ADHD, their own inner struggle with poor self-worth, lack of self-acceptance and low self-esteem, limits their full appreciation of the abundant love from those around them and for themselves.
Easier said than done! I recognize a pattern in my posts: I seem to be telling you what you probably already know. I write that recovering from mental illness is exhausting and that taking psychiatric medication leaves something to be desired. But these topics are important and they need to be discussed.
So, let's talk about sleep.
Before I decided to share them here, I hadn't read my old personal blog entries chronicling Bob's two inpatient hospitalizations in 2008 since writing them. As I read them four years later, the confusion, hurt, anger and hopelessness are just as palpable.
Amazing how the past can provide perspective into the present.
"Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once."
William Shakespeare, Julius Caeser
It was February 1977. We tumbled out of our wooden paneled station wagon, returning home from Indian Princesses, a YMCA craft and activity program to enhance relationships between fathers and daughters.
This is a hard piece for me to write because it involves recognizing emotional abuse and the events leading up to my diagnosis of borderline personality disorder (BPD) and complex post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). It may be triggering to fellow survivors of emotional abuse. If you aren't in a place where you can read about it, don't read this piece. It's okay not to be ready to face your past by hearing about mine.
When I told my mother I had a mental illness, I’m pretty sure she didn’t believe me. She didn’t come right out and say it, but it was pretty clear she was suspicious. Once she did feel something was wrong, she was sure it could be fixed with vitamins and herbs.
It couldn’t.
And this is a pretty common reaction from family members. You have one of the hardest conversations of your life and the family member responds with, “you’re not sick.”
Or, “you look fine to me.”
Or, “you’re just being dramatic.”
Or many other things that will tell you that they don’t believe anything is wrong.
So how do you approach a family member and explain to them that everything is not OK.
I was sixteen and on the edge of puberty when I realized I hated my body. I hated having breasts, and the fact that people actually noticed them. I hated the fact that my stomach was round, my thighs were round, even my hair was too round.
I felt awkward and ugly, and that feeling plagues me to this day as I recover from anorexia.
Whitney Houston's death kept me up Saturday night because my mind was racing. Not only from the shock of a legend being gone, but also the speculation and response from media, but mostly from people on Twitter and Facebook. There is so much misunderstanding, judgment, and blame placed on addicts whom die, and am saddened to not see more compassion for the struggle people face when struggling with an addiction. I know at this point the cause of her death is pure speculation, and I will not try to analyze the how and why in this post, because I feel I do not have enough information to talk about it, without more facts. I do want to address the life and loss of a legend, the realities of a struggle with an addiction, and the frustration and sadness I feel when seeing the responses to her death.
My point being, I'm right there with you. I hate the rollercoaster. I just want to live life without being in a state of constant fight or flight mode, only for his character to change and de-escalate and I fall for the person I fell for all over again.
Exhausting is a horrible word. The understatement of all understatements, if you will.
I wish there were better support groups for this kind of mental health condition.