The War Rages On. . .

From the outside I appear pretty normal, I live day to day as a mother and wife, loving my children like nothing else. I keep up a pretty good appearance to those who don’t know me.
Those who don’t REALLY know me would probably say I’m a pretty good girl, I’m pleasant, always smiling, I’m a good mother, I have a pretty good relationship with my husband. . .

For those who do know me, and know me well. . . Those who know me on a personal basis would say a lot different. . . I live with Bipolar Disorder. I can be having the time of my life one minute, and the next is like a ton of bricks something triggers me and it all comes tumbling in on me so hard it takes me breath away.

I had a good run this time, no episodes since October; well no REAL episodes, and by that I mean in comparison to the episode I had in October that bought me a night in jail that will forever be on my record and will haunt me for the rest of my life.

In January I started Lamictal, and even though my tubes are tied I started DEPO (medroxyprogestrone) to help sway my PMDD rage. All was well, no EXTREME LOWS, life was good. Yesterday out of no where it hit me. No warning, no idea why I triggered, but it hit me and it hit me hard. That crushing weight, that sadness that hits you so hard you can’t breath, you can barely move, but the worst is the anger for me. The anger for no reason, the anger feels me to the brim, the anger that flows over and through and feels like it’s going to rot me from the inside out.

And then there’s the thoughts. . . Oh the many thoughts. Thoughts that I wouldn’t dare share until today.
I think about killing myself of course. I think of how I am worthless. I think of how the world would be better without me. What a burden I am to “my loved ones” of course the voice in my head tells me they really hate me and if I would just end it they would be thankful to finally not deal with “the crazy daughter, the crazy sister, the crazy friend (for the one I do have), the crazy wife, and one day when my children start catching on the crazy mother”. I think about how broken I am and how no amount of medication and therapy will ever fix this kind of broken.

Why did God make me this way? Why did God let the world make me this way. I’m genetically predisposed to this illness but if I hadn’t been molested, if my childhood had been different, less chaotic would I have had a chance in hell of being some kind of normal?

The possibility of a life taken from me is what hurts so much. The person taken from me, the person I lost. Who would I have been?

Would I be questioning the one thing that I’ve always felt I was meant to be? A mother. . . When these episodes hit I question being the one thing I love the absolute most. Should I have had kids at all? I can try my best to protect them, I can do everything in my power to protect them from the things I went through but the one thing I can’t protect them from is myself.

I can’t protect them from my genetics. I do my best to protect them from my episodes, but they are smart, so so smart and they’re catching on. Eventually they’re going to know their mother is crazy like everyone else already knows; what a burden for them to carry.

I drove around for three hours yesterday. Three hours listening to “Nicklebacks Lullaby” on repeat. I drove around desperate to talk to anyone. . .
I found myself at the cemetery. Seems these days the only person worth talking to is the only one who can’t talk back; my papaw. My protector, my warrior the only man who ever tried to keep me safe in my life. I’m sure I looked like a mad woman laying down beside his grave curled up like an infant sobbing until I couldn’t catch my breath. I thought about staying the night. Just spending the night laying and sobbing and going even further into that dark place. They close at dusk though and honestly who really wants more people to know you’re crazy. . . I didn’t want someone to ask this crazy woman to leave so I left on my own so as not to be exposed more.

I came home, self medicated, took an Ambien and woke up this morning feeling frail, and dark. I spent most of the morning thinking about cutting; I quickly dismissed that as that is part of what lead to my night in jail last time.

By 10am it was time to take my sweet Caleb to see his tutor. I walked in and one of the most kind women I’ve ever met, but also one who I have always maintained a good face with recognized something in me. She asked me how I was, I smiled and told her I was fine like I always do when I’m forced to face the day even when I just want to crawl in a hole. That’s when she grabbed my hand; “Kimberly she said, you don’t know about my Bridget, sit down and let’s talk for a bit”.

She went on to tell me about her beautiful daughter, she had adopted her at the age of 2; Bridget went through unimaginable abuse and neglect in the short 2 years spent with her biological parents. Nightmarish horror stories, too much for this sweet lady to detail.
Bridgett was too young to remember most of this; but she went on to tell me how it haunted her. How it broke her, how it destroyed her inner self, how Bridget never could find who she was, or why she was the way she was. This sweet lady told me that after 24 years of Bridget’s war raging she ended her life. She cried for the child she couldn’t save, for not protecting her even though there was no way she could have, for not being able to get through, for not being able to make her see her own value, and how she was more then her disease, more then her illness.

More then anything this women gave me a wake up call. I’m not fooling everyone;
There’s a war that rages on in all of us, it’s a matter of what side you decide to take. . .
Who will you decide to be this episode??

Victim or Survivor? I choose SURVIVOR, and I choose not to let my yesterday’s define me.