Nothing is ever free, one way or another you pay a price for
the choices you make. Good, bad or
otherwise the price is paid. All at once
or in easy monthly installments, your choice must have consequences. Since coming home I have noticed that there
is an aftermath that must be dealt with, sometimes it is good, but sometimes it
isn’t. It has been 2 months to the day
since I was picked up in San Diego, since I had to face my loved ones after the
choice I made. I have come home and
tried to pick the pieces back up and glue them back together, only to discover
that it never stays glued for long.
After 2 months of trying I have come to the realization that I can’t fix
what is broken, I can only mourn the loss and move on. I don’t believe I will ever recover, but I do
believe I can learn to live again.
My relationships have changed, some for the better, and some not. My husband sees me differently and is very open to new discoveries and finding new ways to live again. My parents worry far more than they should, but are extremely supportive to a certain degree. I grew up in a circumstance that told me that you don’t talk about your difficulties, you just suck it up and deal…in silence. My being open and honest about my experience has been a test for my parents. Then there are those who look at me from a distance with a look of concern and dread, like I have a communicable disease. I’m fairly certain that they don’t want to catch the “crazy” that I have obviously contracted. There are even days where I feel the same way.
A new discovery upon returning to therapy; it is very likely
that I have Bipolar II. Taa-Daa! There it is, BAM! My symptoms indicate that I have a bipolar
disorder along with everything else…really?!
I have not really dealt with this yet…but I have had at least 2 cycles
since this discovery, so I can’t really deny it. I go up and do silly things like buy my dog a
raincoat…I come down and stop cleaning the house…I level out and function for a
week. My husband and I spent a pile of
money one day and the day ended with us driving home from Murrieta with a
treadmill in the back of my mother-in-law’s Ford Focus while I sat with 2 3
foot tall stuffed dogs in my lap. I am
fairly sure that everyone that passed us on the freeway said “there goes some
seriously messed up people”. I see the
cycles after they are done, but I can’t seem to see them coming on so that I
can try to ride through it better and not throw up at the end. I am not sure if I want to take meds for it,
but I do want to be consistent for my children.
I have also discovered lately that I have conversations with
people and not remember them. I do
things after I have taken my night meds and woken up the next morning wondering
what happened. I woke up one morning
with a candy bar wrapper on me, and damn if I don’t remember having even
enjoyed it! This is terribly frustrating
for me. I am currently reading The Lord
of the Rings to my husband before bed each night…I don’t remember most of it,
every night it seems they are wandering somewhere and I don’t know how they got
there. I am fairly certain that I should
not be allowed to have my phone at night, as I am afraid of what I will find in
the morning.
This is the aftermath of going crackers, this is how life
looks after the hospital stay, and this is my price that I am paying for the
choices I made. My life has very
suddenly become a roller coaster of ups and downs and throwing up and shaking
and level ground, and then it starts all over again with new joys to
overcome. So here’s to the
rollercoasters, and learning to live again.
May I learn to love the ride!
