Five years.

 I know that this time five years ago, I was in California, waiting for my mother to die. I can still picture exactly  - the golden light as it filtered through the blinds across the hospice bed in her living room. The two bedroom apartment in Morro Bay, California. The last meal of corned beef hash still in the Tupperware container in the refrigerator, as if we were saving it for her, for later. Notes in her handwriting stuck to the door with magnets. I opened her purse to look for something for the hospice nurse, and I can still remember the way it smelled like it always had. Blistex lip ointment and Listerine breath strips. I can still hear the sea lions barking from the bay, and my mother’s breath rattling in her chest as the television muttered words we half-listened to, desperately focused on the sound of her inhales, her exhales. The dryness of her hands that I held while she was unaware, the lump in my throat as I sang to her, I remember all of it. And this year, five years later, I can’t feel it.  

I can remember the winding road into Morro Bay, the terror I felt gripping the wheel of my rental car on the California interstate, and the mix of grief and gratitude to be in the place I’d wanted to see since childhood. But I can’t feel those feelings now. Five years later. It’s such a milestone. You’d think I’d be able to feel something. 

Years previous to this, I’ve been angry. She was so young, and I hadn’t seen her in five years. We hadn’t resolved our issues. We hadn’t resolved the anger between us. She was an addict. I didn’t understand that her death wasn’t about me, and the rest of her children, not being enough to live for. Years previous to this, I celebrated her life with friends. I grieved with them. I showed up to my own party late, drank, and ate ice cream cake. Another year, I drove to Florida by myself to see the ocean and feel closer to her. This year, I’ll go out with my partner and attempt to celebrate her life. It feels foreign to me, though. I feel like I’m grieving someone I do not know. I feel that my connection to her has vanished, and with it comes a feeling of guilt and loss much deeper than losing her ever felt. 

Maybe it’s that it’s hard to grieve someone you don’t really know. She and I were never close, and I still know so little about her. The interactions we had were so often abusive, and I wanted her love and approval the way that all kids want their mother’s love and approval. When I left for my own safety, it was the emotional equivalent of cutting off an arm because you’re trapped beneath a boulder, desperate for escape. Did it save my life? Yes. Was there lasting damage in spite of my survival? Yes. For a long time, I felt that this was a catalyst to my mom’s drinking. I felt that my leaving was the reason for her downward spiral and subsequent death. Sometimes I still do. 

Maybe it’s the pandemic. Maybe it’s that so many of us have spent over a year trying to survive in a world that doesn’t look like our own, that I’ve forgotten most things that aren’t necessary for self-preservation. Maybe not feeling this grief is necessary for self preservation. Does this feeling exist outside of the personal world I had created when it occurred? The world is unrecognizable since then. I’m unrecognizable. When she died, I thought I was straight. I thought I was cisgender. I recognize now that I am non-binary. I recognize now that I am queer. I know myself now more than I ever did then. Did grief provide a clearer lens through which to see myself? Am I not honoring myself by not being able to experience this feeling now? 

More than anything, I’m afraid that this is what people mean when they say “it gets easier”. I know I couldn’t have survived the way I felt in the first year after she died. That underwater, buried, gasping for air feeling. But I didn’t want to turn it off completely– any feeling of her, of the experience, of our relationship. We were complicated both in life and in death. There were many things we never resolved or discussed. I wish she would have known me as I am, fully. I want to believe she would have loved me as I was completely, though her terrible husband makes me pause. Recalling the memories in perfect detail isn’t enough if they are just pictures on a screen. She meant more to me than a movie.  And movies at least evoke something.

When I was in Florida on the third anniversary of her death, I drank gas station bottles of wine and sobbed until the sun came up over the orange pebble beach. I  kept HGTV on the hotel room television so I wouldn’t feel alone, just like I did when I lived with my mother and stepdad and my room was in the basement with one bare lightbulb and an old tube television. I cried until my chest ached, my eyes swelled, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The unfinished business, the pain, the addiction, and ultimately, me at 27, desperately wanting to hear my mother’s voice tell me that it would all be okay. 

I expected something like that at the five year mark. Or something a little more calm. Maybe the dull ache of loss. I don’t want to feel the pain of losing her. I think I want to feel her. And maybe this is my brain and body protecting me, in a way. 

I think when it comes, it’s going to level me. 

Relapse.

 I know an obscene amount about murderers, cults, and cryptids that live in bodies of water. I can still remember the words and tune to "Carrot Stew", one of the songs that my class learned from our music teacher in elementary school (get a pot and a carrot or two! and we'll cook up a carrot stew). I can analyze historical documents spread in front of me and write a brilliant research paper (my advisor's words, not mine) or fight through stage fright and anxiety when my whole body is telling me not to and make a crowd laugh at dumb jokes about religion and sexuality.

I can explain bipolar disorder to my friends and family.

I have divulged the condition to people I have just met, to friends I have had long before I had the diagnosis, and walked them through how it made sense, given my record of behavior. It was like a friend or a sidekick, along for the ride while I had drinking benders, ruined relationships, got into screaming matches with family members, or laid in bed and slept for days when I should have been in my classes. I explained to my current partner, while I was stable, that she would not be prepared for the bad days. That even I didn't know how bad I could get. That I am not the one driving the Morgan-shaped flesh vessel, and sometimes the bad days last for weeks or months.We knew we wanted to get married already. She looked up the divorce statistics for bipolar patients and abruptly put her phone away.

It's 90 percent.

I've been accused of talking about mental illness for attention. Some guy I met on Tinder sent me a string of vitriolic messages in 2017 telling me that I only posted about reducing the stigma so I could feel good about myself, but that I didn't actually care about other people, I only cared about myself. I internalized that a lot. I questioned my intentions. Maybe I just didn't want to feel alone. There is a lot of loneliness when you're diagnosed with bipolar disorder and realize that 1 in 5 bipolar patients eventually complete suicide. It can take years off of your life or take your life completely, and then you're seen as weak. Since I was diagnosed, I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I can't do. What I shouldn't do. I've been told there are certain professions that I just can't do because I have bipolar disorder. At first, I was so angry with that person for telling me that. But I think he's probably right.

My saint of a partner told me last week that she doesn't blame me for what I'm going through and she's working on understanding it. "I can tell that it's something that torments you", or something very similar, is what she said. It's probably the best description of it that I've ever heard. When it's bad, it's like an out of body experience. I can't control my thoughts, and they control my body. I'm still on medication, so I might have good hours in the bad days, but it is a constant war for control. The crisis medication makes me too tired to function. If I take it too long, I'm too depressed to get out of bed. If I'm alone too long, I think about all of the things I've done that have hurt people, just in this round of being ill. One of my close friends was the first person to refer to my bad weeks as my being "sick", and it gave me so much comfort. To have it called what it is. 

But when I have an endometriosis flare up, I don't slam doors five times in a row just to release kinetic energy, pain, and fear. I don't have thought loops about how my friends hate me and resent me for needing reassurance that they don't hate me. I don't throw full water bottles at the kitchen wall. I don't wonder if I deserve to live at all. I don't convince myself that my friends and family are better off without me. Sometimes I wonder how I peel myself out of bed and do anything.

I do wonder if I'm saying too much by putting this out into the world. Is it saying too much? Does it help people? Does it make people pity me? Where is the line between raising awareness and saying too much? Telling people that I'm okay and know how to handle these times, but knowing that they're concerned for my safety and the safety of others? Was that guy in 2017 right? Who am I really serving writing things like this?

I'm not out of the woods yet, but I'm close. You don't get better from the bad days in just a few days. But it's important for me to remember that the bad days are only about 10-15% of my life now. Before, they were 90% of my life, and I was exhausted all of the time. I used to call out of work just to lay in bed and let silent tears stream down my face, wondering what was wrong with me, wondering why I was alive, why I hadn't just died in the womb, why a car couldn't just hit me driving down the road. I was in a constant cycle of feeling euphoric and then breaking and wanting to die. In the immortal words of Elle Woods "This is SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT!"

I know I'll never be completely out of the woods. You never can be when the woods are Fangorn Forest, and they can follow you. This disease is like a dance.

Into the woods, then out of the woods. And home before dark.

I know that I can manage. It's important for me to keep talking about it. Talking about it helps me process. It helps me deal. Maybe it helps other people. Maybe I share this, and someone I don't even know I'm Facebook friends with has just been diagnosed, or is thinking they're about to be diagnosed, and they can see how hard it is, but that its manageable. 

I can explain it. I can't fix it.

But strong is fighting. It's hard. And it's painful, and it's every day.

And it's what I have to do.

Love,

Your chronic illness, bipolar disorder, ptsd Slayer

29

Before we get started here, this is a big disclaimer: this is about suicidal ideation. Yes, I'm in therapy. No, I'm not a danger to myself. I think writing it out is important. It's uncomfortable. But it's burning through me right now. So there's that. It'll probably be hard for my friends and family to read, if they do. This stuff is on my mind almost every day, especially lately.

Ever since I was twelve the only end to my life that I can imagine has been by my own hand. It seems really dramatic to say that. I'm sure other people think about their lives in their twilight years, grey-haired, maybe surrounded by kids and grandkids. That's never been a thought in my mind. When I think about my death, it's always been a different kind of vision. A pill bottle or swimming out to sea or a make-shift noose. Conquering my fear of heights and jumping off of a bridge. It's the only end I've ever envisioned for myself. There is no other out. Sometimes it's not because my life is so bad. It just seems like a fact. Never an "I'll show you!". Just "this is how it ends for me." It's as easily understood as a firefighter dying from smoke inhalation or a cancer patient finally succumbing to their illness. It just makes sense.

When it gets too much to bear, people always ask me if I'm current on my medication. If I need my dosage adjusted. If I should be seeing my therapist more. When it gets really bad, I don't want to do any of those things at all. I want to quit everything I'm doing to stave off the inevitable and just let it happen. I don't know if its about courage or about laziness. Maybe some part of me thinks there's something left to live for. I told my therapist recently that I keep going for spite. To show the world it hasn't beaten me. But I don't know if that's true anymore.

I turned 29 today and spent an hour crying in the office bathroom because I can't think of a reason to live anymore. This isn't about self-loathing or wanting pity from the world. I used to think I was a good person that bad things just happened to. And maybe that was true at first. Somewhere along the line, I let trauma mold me and I don't think I'm a good person anymore. I don't think I know who I am anymore. I'm not sure I ever did. I've taken every good thing in my life and ruined it beyond recognition. When I try to be better I inevitably fail. I can't think of a single person whose life couldn't have been improved by not meeting me. I've isolated myself from the people who used to care about me by using what's happened to me as a crutch. I don't think I've ever felt more alone. Reinventing myself sounds exhausting.

People have told me before that I'm strong. Resilient. I've been through so much. An abusive, absent, alcoholic mother. Two sexual assaults. A physically abusive boyfriend. Poverty. Undiagnosed mental illness that made stability impossible for me during the most difficult times of my life. But I'm so tired of being strong. It seems pointless. Everything seems futile. Progress seems pointless. I don't want to be strong anymore.

Everything I've built I've inevitably torn down. The only guarantees in my life are that I'll push people away. I'm trying to unlearn it. I don't know if I can. Maybe some people are beyond help. Maybe I always was. My mother always treated me like there was something wrong with me when I was a kid. I wasn't a happy kid. I'm not a happy adult.

Sometimes it's not about wanting to die its about wanting the pain to stop. It's not about wanting to punish anyone it's about wanting to be free. I know I won't hurt or harm myself. I just want it to stop. I want a chance. I want a shot. I want it to be easier than it is. I want a do-over. I want to feel like I matter. I want to want to get out of bed in the morning. I want to want to live. I want to see myself grey-haired forty years in the future.

But I don't.

Still waiting.

Last weekend, I drove to Flagler Beach, Florida to run away from my emotions on the third anniversary weekend of my mother's death. I went alone and only told my husband and a few people from work in case they needed to reach me on the day I drove back. I didn't really have many more people to tell.

Flagler Beach was not the original plan - I wanted to see St. Augustine, initially. It had been in the running for my honeymoon, and I wanted to see it for myself. When I got there, a seafood festival was in town, and the narrow streets were overrun with traffic. Exhausted from my 7-hour drive that had somehow turned into nine due to my search for gluten-free fare, I decided to drive thirty miles further south. There was one motel close to the ocean. It was easy to gauge its proximity by its price. The property was called The Topaz Motel/Hotel, and it was equal parts run down and haunted, either by actual ghosts or by memories of the family who had lived there before, or the tourists who had come and gone. I slept with HGTV on. Ghosts don't mess with folks who sleep with that on. They're too depressed by the beautiful homes they can't go haunt. I feel you, ghosts.

The beachfront was lined with construction barrels, as the city was repairing the dunes. I woke up at sunrise anyway and swung my leg over the barrier, taking the stairs down to the sand. I didn't see what I was looking for - dolphins. The whole reason I drove down in the first place. My mother had loved dolphins. I didn't cry like I thought I would, either. I sat on the stairs. I walked along the beach for awhile. I watched a glorious pit bull dig in the sand with its barefoot owner, waves rushing in as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The sand in Flagler Beach is mostly crushed coral and seashells, and it was rough in my sandals to the point that it hurt my feet. I texted my husband a bit. Still no tears. But then, she wasn't dead yet. It was still only Sunday, and the anniversary was Monday.

I spent the rest of the day getting breakfast, where I listened to a Florida State graduate bemoan the queer state of the Boy Scouts and laud our Cheeto in Chief for his guidance of the country. I spent two hours at the beach, forgetting to wear sunscreen and burning my shoulders and back to a crisp. I missed out on the dolphin tour I meant to book in Saint Augustine and ended up booking a cheap imitation, and ripped my favorite dress rushing out the door on the way to drive there. There was no parking and I barely made my dock. A couple in front of me on the tour talked incessantly the whole time. I finally saw my dolphins. Though I'm crying now at the recollection, I didn't cry then. I was hardly moved. I felt like I couldn't feel anything. I found more gluten-free sustenance at a nearby bar afterward, and hung out with a now-nameless bartender for an hour, drinking specialty cocktails and discussing the slower pace in the South compared to our native Northern climes. Closing time came as I was drinking my Swamp Pony, and he graciously let me stay awhile.

By the time I made it to Flagler Beach, I had four miles left in my gas tank. I risked it all to drive six miles to the nearest gas station for boxed Chardonnay and a bottle of water. I filled my tank. I swung open the hotel door, making sure to say hello to the HGTV and the ghosts lurking in the corner. By the time I popped the chardonnay in the freezer to be chilled a moment, it was Monday, March 25th, 2019.

This year, I cried a little less. The entire point of the trip to Florida was that I would deal with this death. For the last two years, two friends have thrown a "Deathiversary" party for me, to distract me and help heal my wounds. Those two friends were in my wedding. This year, I didn't hear from either of them on the anniversary of my mother's death. In fact, I'm not sure I've seen one of them, at least, since I got married. People grow apart. It's a part of life. It's the lonely part of life.

I did cry, though. I felt it. In the third year since my mother has been gone, I've started a new job, decided to finally take graduate applications seriously, married the man of my dreams, came out as bisexual, became an aunt, went to New York City, the list goes on and on. I've been diagnosed with endometriosis, PTSD, and PCOS. I've isolated myself, tucked myself away in my house with my husband and my dogs, barely interacting with any of my friends outside of the internet and completely unsure how to start. I'm slowly inching toward mental stability, and that means facing up to what a shit person I was while my mother was alive and when I first moved to Chattanooga. That means acknowledging the reality that I hardly remember a lot of nights, especially when I was out doing comedy, either because I was drunk or manic - or both.

Navigating chronic illness alone, without friends nearby...friends that you can text or call with a moment's notice and say "hey, I am struggling and I need to just not think about it for a minute" without having to pretend everything is okay...is impossible. I had surgery to excise endometriosis. I had ovarian drilling. I have scars on my abdomen that are barely two centimeters long each. Somehow, all of my gastrointestinal issues and abdominal pain are persistent. My pelvic pain is persistent. I'm still in pelvic floor physical therapy. My current treatment plan is having injections in my abdominal wall to numb trigger points, or clusters of nerves, that I developed while guarding myself from my intense abdominal pain from endometriosis. This might not work. I still need more vaginal wall injections. Just so I can function. The only person I discuss this with is my husband. Poor guy. In sickness and in health. I bet he's wondering when the "and in health" part comes along.

I'm so sick of being in the type of pain that no one sees. I'm sick of explaining that my pain isn't gone. I'm sick of not eating red meat, gluten, dairy, or soy, and somehow still not losing weight even at 1,300 calories per day. I feel insane all the time.

While dealing with all of this, I've been dealing with the very real paranoia that no one actually likes me. I haven't given people much reason to over the past three years. I've been paranoid, entitled, rude, dramatic, overly talkative, needy, the list goes on. Every time I try to go out or put myself out there, my crippling social anxiety takes over, and I stay home. Or I have a debilitatingly bad pain day, and I stay home. Even though I "seem healthy." I seem healthy because my world can't just stop when I feel bad, or my world would always be stopped. I'm not kidding when I say the only friendships I can keep are the ones I form online. Which is first, pathetic, and second, lonely.

Part of me misses when I wasn't medicated. Like all it would take is one good manic episode to really kick my shit into high gear. I wonder if I'd be better off if I never tried to get better. If I never had tried to fix myself.  I'd lose this PCOS weight and feel like the talk of the town. I'd go out and drink and have fun, and maybe write a funny joke or two and have the energy to go work them out at an open mic. Maybe I'd do more than binge-watch Netflix and sit and wonder why no one reaches out to see if I'm okay. I see a lot of my friends post all of the time, hell, I do, about how if you're struggling, you should reach out. I do reach out. But what really helps is real relationships, not people paying you lip service because they don't want your pain on their conscience.

I drove 9 hours to Flagler Beach last weekend so I could mourn my mother. I wanted to mourn her actively and stop ignoring and deflecting. So I walked the beach. I looked for dolphins. I ripped my favorite dress and bought a $12 dollar swimsuit at Wal-Mart that barely fit my bloated, chronic illness stomach. I laid on the beach. I waded in the ocean and couldn't swim in the waves. I cried for my mother. I cried for myself. I lost myself in HGTV and ghost stories and wondering why I couldn't keep a friendship longer than two years, and if everyone was right about me all along.

I skipped two days of medication and waited to see if I felt better.

I'm still waiting. I think I'll always be waiting.

This was a lot easier when it was just my brain

Tonight, I am not going to a comedy show. It's not super out of character for me for the last year. I've had a lot going on. Hell, the last three years were kind of filled with the kind of upheavals that keep you from the things you love. So here's a refresher course:

1) Mom died
2) Received bipolar disorder diagnosis
3) Planned trip to Australia
4) Planned wedding
5) Actually followed through with wedding
6) PTSD diagnosis
7) Switched jobs

Getting diagnosed with bipolar disorder about a year and a half ago was somewhat akin to receiving my first pair of glasses. I didn't change. Everything about me and who I was stayed the same. The lens I viewed the world through, however, changed. It's been a hard road the last year and a half.  Navigating medication and therapy and relationships while trying to hold down my job and my relationship and plan a trip to Australia without losing my mind was difficult.

Then I came back and got engaged.

Every milestone has seemed like a boulder or even a mountain, or a Hollywood sign screaming out "Hey! You're not dead yet!". And being Not Dead Yet has felt, most of the time, better than the alternative. This was and is a nice, new feeling for me. I have had some bouts with suicidal ideation, horrible set backs, a new medication that messes with my memory and gives me constantly tingling feet and hands, but ultimately, I am feeling good mentally.

What a fucking red flag.

About six months before I left for Australia, in between all of the comedy open mics I was skipping in the throes of my True Manic Episode that led to my being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I started experiencing severe gastrointestinal distress. I wouldn't have described it as severe then, but every time I ate anything, I experienced nausea. I explained this to my boyfriend when I headed back to work from my lunch break every day, and he begged me to see a doctor. I refused, of course, because doctors cost money, and I had a trip coming up. I continued to ignore the stomach issues I had for many more months, including when I was actually in Australia. These included nausea, severe constipation and diarrhea (you're welcome!), and horrible heartburn and reflux.

I came back to the States and promptly got engaged, as one is wont to do. My fiance wouldn't let me ignore my issues any longer, so I went to the doctor who had bailed me out when I couldn't get in anywhere to get crisis medication when I was on the verge of a suicide attempt. She explained that what I described was essentially Irritable Bowel Syndrome (sexy!) and that I should see a GI.

"But hey, while you're here! When's the last time you had a pap smear?"

Ah yes. Now we're getting to the meat of this story. Aren't you excited? I sure as shit wasn't.

I'd had an IUD for about three years, which was actually responsible for my journey into the wild world of stand-up comedy. I hadn't had anyone poke around the region that is nether since that time. Reluctantly, I let my doctor take a gander.

As you may have guessed, things were not up to code. First, we thought that it may be my Mirena. The damn lazy thing had fallen a few millimeters, resting further south in my cervix than was normal. This was causing me significant pelvic pain. We set an appointment to remove it and reinstall a different, smaller brand, the oh so sexily named Kyleena. Kyleena sounds like a Milennial branded Barbie, but whatever, I digress. Much to my chagrin, at my follow up appointment, no change. I was referred to a specialist.

The whole experience has left me questioning my body (and a lot of my friends who have had similar experiences so thanks!). Here is the thing.

I've always had painful periods.
I've always had pain between periods.
I've always had pain with intercourse.

The first time I had pain with sex, I called my mom.

My mom told me that I was probably experiencing pain because I felt guilty, because it had been so important to me to wait for marriage before I had sex.

I never brought up pain during intercourse again, rarely even to my partners. It wasn't really until my husband that I felt comfortable saying HEY um, excuse me, uh, ouch, I'm sorry, but uh, ouch.

I was so ashamed of even having a period that I couldn't bring myself to buy tampons until college. And that was out of pure necessity. I was living with a man in college and couldn't talk about my period with him. I missed a period for six months my senior year of college. Then, I bled for a month straight. I couldn't talk to him about it because it was gross and shameful. As for the pain and the cramping, that was just normal.

Right?

Listen. I had no idea that pain that lasts throughout the entire day wasn't normal pain. I didn't realize that normal cramps were more likely to be intermittent. I've just been dealing with this. I didn't realize that normal pain doesn't take over your whole body. I didn't realize that normal sex shouldn't make your entire pelvis hurt down to your bones (yes it does that to mine, what?!) I didn't realize that sex shouldn't always be uncomfortable.

Because no one fucking talks about this shit.

Current symptoms include:

Radiating leg pain
Chronic constipation (haven't had a normal BM in a year hell yeah!)
debilitating cramps on and off period
pain during sex
intermittent deep vaginal pain for NO REASON!
pain with urination
pain with bowel movements
hip pain
sciatic pain
food sensitivities

I met with my specialist today for a follow up. I've been going to pelvic floor physical therapy for about five weeks now, where they're trying to retrain my body to stop being so fucking tense about all of this pain I am in. This involves intense exercises that soon will involve "internal stimulation" - that basically means clinical fingering. My doctor listened to me discuss how I'd been feeling and asked "how do you feel about a diagnostic laparoscopy"

There are two possible diagnoses, here. The first, endometriosis, is when the lining of the uterus sets up shop outside the uterus. Colonizing bitches. It essentially glues itself to your organs. This can cause gastrointestinal problems like chronic constipation, pain with urination, etc. It loves to grow on the bowels and between the uterus and bladder. It essentially loves to grow in all of the places I Have pain. I tell you what, the first pelvic exam I had with my new doctor was a REAL treat. I don't think I've felt pain like that. She was being gentle, but deliberate. She knows what she's doing, that's for sure.

 The second diagnosis is interstitial cystitis, which is essentially chronic inflammation of the bladder. Of course since this is women's health, these diseases are little understood. Thankfully, I have a kickass doctor. We are coming up with a treatment plan to figure out how to get my abdomen and pelvis back into working condition.

In the meantime, none of my pants fit me. I am constantly bloated and inflamed. I haven't been able to lose weight for months in spite of an extremely limited diet. I cannot have gluten. I am supposed to drastically limit caffeine, alcohol, dairy,red meat and all manner of things I actually enjoy. Physical activity leaves me in much more pain than I started in. It is hard for me to do anything that involves standing up or sitting down for long periods of time.

I'm a fucking joy at parties.

Mostly I'm pissed because I finally got ahead of life a little, and my body was like "Nah, bitch. Not yet." I crossed a bunch of things off of my list, and my body had other ideas. It is incredibly frustrating to do the hard work of taking responsibility for your mental health, owning all of the things that entails, reaching stability, only to have your body, of all things, jeopardize that work. I am 100 percent used to emotional pain. Treating physical pain as a priority is new and annoying.

In January I will undergo treatment that includes, among other things, actual NEEDLES in my ACTUAL vagina. This shit is terrifying. Hopefully, I will be able to undergo a diagnostic laparoscopy simultaneously to evaluate for endometriosis so we can move forward with answers.

This shit doesn't have a cure. I thankfully have one of the best doctors in the state and I am confident she will do her best to get me to a pain-free place. But it could always come back. If it's CI, there is absolutely no cure, and few effective treatments. I wish I had pressed harder when I was in my early twenties for my ob to listen to me when I said I had painful irregular periods. It takes an average of seven years from the onset of symptoms for women to receive diagnosis. I hope medicine advances further in the next few years so that other women don't have to undergo vaginal needling to feel some relief and be capable of physical intimacy.

Tonight, I am not going to a comedy show because I am in too much physical pain to do anything but lay on this couch and write about it. Lay on this couch, write about it, and freak out about my medical future. This was a lot easier when it was just my brain.

This is a blog post for survivors of assault

I grew up in a sleepy, small town. More accurately, I grew up in a small, sleepy county.  There was one high school for about six towns, and it had roughly 400 students all together.  The nearest Wal-mart was about a forty minute drive, depending on where in the county you were. Winters were brutal and summers were amazing. We spoke about travel in terms of minutes to get there, not miles. Everything was far apart. For some, where I grew up is heaven.  It's the kind of place where it seems like nothing bad can happen. And honestly, it rarely did. Sure, there was crime in the city nearest to us, but it seemed distant.  I never knew anyone personally who had been a victim of, well, anything.

But somehow as I grew up, there were things I just learned and accepted as true. Maybe it was the television. I watched a lot of Law and Order: SVU. I know that in my health class, we talked about the bad things that can happen to women.

Rape.

That four letter word. The punchline to so many edgelord jokes. The reason I walk more quickly when I am alone, keep my head down, don't make too much eye contact.  The reason I hurry when I am in a public restroom.

My mom once told me that predators go for women wearing ponytails, because they're easy to grab.  She told me that women wearing dresses were targets.  Even women wearing overalls - because the straps were easy to cut.

I was told to be aware when I was out in public.  I was told to watch my drink, and make sure I was the one who made it. For my whole adolescent life, I was coached, advised, and groomed to live in fear of strange men. No one told me to fear the men I knew.

I was barely 19. I think, anyway. It was spring break my sophomore year of college, so that sounds right. I would turn 20 that November. I had made some friends in town when I went to college who weren't students, themselves.  I was really a terribly awkward person when I moved to Tennessee for college. I had never been very good at making friends because I am such a deeply anxious person, and I was 17 when I started my freshman year. These friends I made took me into their friend group even though I was a total hot mess, especially when drunk. I was obnoxious, loud, and terrible. They were still kind to me, mostly.  They were how I met Parker.

Parker was dynamic, confident, and attractive. I met him at the first party I went to in Tennessee. He had brought a girl with him. She was under 18. Everyone laughed and made jokes about it. She was very, very pretty. She was thin, beautiful, and blonde. Parker was the type of guy that I'd had crushes on in middle school.  All he was missing was the puka shell necklace. At later parties, people would joke about how once I turned 18, I'd be too old for him.

We hung out one time by ourselves. I picked him up from his parent's house and just drove us around. I guess maybe he didn't want people to know he was hanging out with me. It was a totally innocent thing. There wasn't even a kiss at the end. Just two adults, hanging out.  I even joked that now that I was 18, I was too old for him. How messed up is that? This guy was in his twenties and exclusively seeking out teenagers, and we all just laughed it off.

It was nearly spring break, and I was getting lusty for a wander. I posted on my Facebook that I wanted to go see the ocean, but didn't have anywhere to stay, and I was poor. Imagine my shock when Parker commented on my status that he was in New Smyrna, and I could stay with him.

I immediately sent him a message. Are you serious?
He was.

I drove down to New Smyrna from Nashville where I had been staying with a friend.  I was excited to see the ocean and positively glowing with anticipation of seeing Parker. I would be lying if I said I didn't have a crush on him. Again, he was dynamic, confident, and attractive. I had terribly low self esteem. And I was going to get to hang out with him for a weekend.

I was so fucking naive.

I arrived to his apartment that he shared with his roommate late. We stayed up chatting and flirting.  I don't remember how many vodka tonics I had.  I remember at some point, I stopped making them for myself. Parker or his roommate would bring them to me. My guard was completely down.

The last clear memory I have is a dark hallway, in front of his bedroom. He's kissing me. Then it goes black.

I woke up naked with Parker between my legs. He was penetrating me digitally. It hurt. I sat up and yelled at him to stop, that I didn't want to have sex, no, no, no. Please stop.

He looked at me and said "what are you talking about, we were already having sex".

I asked him what he meant. He said "we were already having sex." He said something about it being fun. I think he asked me if it felt good. I begged him to stop.

He got so angry. But he stopped.

Amazingly, I slept next to him that night.  Amazingly, I was worried he was mad at me.

The next day I was so sore inside my vagina that it hurt to walk, but I went to the beach with him, anyway.

I tried to convince myself that what had happened, hadn't.  I barely remembered it, after all. He hardly spoke to me after my first night there. I drove around New Smyrna alone. I ate at the same McDonalds three times in a row. I went home a day early, and rerouted myself through a navy base where a friend from high school was stationed. We got drunk and made out, as we had done several other times. My friend never did anything to me when I was drunk outside of cover me with a blanket and make sure I was on my side so I didn't choke on my own vomit.

I tried to forget what happened but I was haunted by Parker's words. "We already had sex."  And so, against my better judgment, I reached out to him on Facebook.

Why did you say that?

Because we did.

Why would you do that? I was passed out.

You knew I Was a virgin.

That's the kicker to the whole story, isn't it? I had never had sex. I had never had an adult relationship. I hardly dated in high school. I didn't know what a normal dynamic was.

I never really learned about consent.

He was someone I considered a friend. So was it rape?
I was drinking that night. So was it rape?
Everyone knew I'd had a crush on him. So was it rape?
Everyone knew I liked the attention. So was it rape?
It took me a year to tell anyone about it. So was it rape?

Was it rape? Did I consent? Somewhere in that dark hallway did a drunk and probably drugged version of Morgan say "Yes, please. This is what I've been saving myself for."  A dark bedroom that reeked of mildew. Warm gin and tonic water with the smallest slices of lime.

But everyone knew I was Desperate Girl. Everyone knew I flirted with everyone at any party, just hoping to get some sort of stamp of approval. Pretty Enough. Smart Enough. Sexy Enough.

So I deserved it, right?

Wasn't I asking for it? Didn't I?

It wasn't until a few years ago that I really came to terms with what happened to me. It wasn't until a few years ago that I was able to call it rape. Because let me answer the above questions for you: I never consented. I didn't want to have sex. I was not lucid. I had likely been drugged.

I was raped by someone I knew and naively trusted. I was raped and I did not report it. I was raped and I was deeply, deeply ashamed. I was raped and every time a politician says something derogatory about women who didn't report, I relive every moment. I still remember what his hands felt like inside of me. I suppose it's a blessing I was passed out for the rest. I still remember how sore I was. How swollen my labia were. I remember how he thought it was a laugh, a game, a joke.

I didn't just lose my virginity that night, I lost my agency and my innocence. I laid the foundation for what would become the fortress around myself and my heart. Guilt were the bricks and self loathing was the mortar.

No one told me that the pain of sexual assault doesn't go away after the physical pain has healed. No amount of "carry pepper spray" or "put your keys between your fingers" or other preventative advice prepared me for what this feels like. What it still feels like. Almost ten years ago.

Almost ten years ago and I still remember his name, and his face. I doubt he remembers me at all. I doubt I was his first. I'm sure I wasn't his last. He followed me through college. Through my first boyfriend who yelled at me when I confessed what happened, because I had told him I was a virgin when we got together.  He followed me through every relationship, both romantic and otherwise, that I tried to start. His name was added to the ever growing list of my traumas that became the vetting process for so many friendships and failed romances.

"are you prepared to deal with the emotional fall out of x, y, and z? Sign on the dotted line"


He followed me to the 2016 Presidential election, when Donald Trump bragged about grabbing women's genitals. He followed me to the inauguration when he was given the office of President, the highest in the land.  He followed me in my relationship with Justin.

He was there every time I tensed up during a sexual encounter, and every time I was coerced into doing something I didn't want to do, because I was afraid of being raped again.  Every time I said no and men thought I was saying "work for it."

I still feel guilty that it happened. I apologized to my husband yesterday for bringing it up, in light of Trump's horrible, victim blaming tweet. He told me to never apologize for what happened to me again. But I still feel like I brought it on myself. I still feel like I did this. I feel like because I wasn't chased down in a park, or cornered in a public bathroom, my assault doesn't matter. Because it wasn't violent. Because I deserved it.

I still feel like I deserved it.

And this is why I didn't report.

Greetings from the Upside Down

I told my fiance I would write out what this feels like.

Earlier today, I woke up and started cleaning house. Justin came home from work, I kept cleaning until we left. I was in a good mood. A bit stressed and with a long to do list, but in good spirits. We went to get Justin fitted for his suit. We had middle eastern food afterward. Went to TJMaxx. Somewhere throughout the day, something triggered me. I feel like I'm in a haze as I'm writing this. Even the light seems different while I'm siting here in the living room. We had a blocked drain, so we got some of that heavy duty stuff from ACE. Now the house smells like sulfur and the incense we've burned to try and mask it. It's doing wonders for my mood and my head.

  I have been on edge for this entire week, and maybe longer than that..I'd have to ask. I haven't been easy to be around. I've been really tired and very run down for weeks, as well. No amount of sleep is enough sleep. By the time two o clock rolls around at work I am down for the count.

I feel like I am barely scraping by and today is just another symptom.

It took me months and months to order our wedding invitations. They're sitting on the desk in the spare room, waiting to be addressed. Today, I am too tired to even fathom addressing them. I'm too tired to lift the remote to turn on the TV. I barely have the energy to type this out. I'm sitting here in my favorite sweatpants and one of Justin's t shirts, trying to be comfortable, and hoping beyond all hope that these small acts of self care will make me feel just a little better.

Oh, good. I just started crying.

Today was the showcase for Chattanooga Girl's Rock. I knew I had to miss it, so that Justin and I could get some wedding stuff done. I still feel guilty. My friend from the camp is going to be playing a show at The Palace tonight, and it is such a good opportunity for her. She has such a gift. I wanted desperately to see her play. I had planned on going. It starts in 30 minutes. I'm on the couch, basking in the smell of incense and sulfur, and my own feelings of inadequacy.

How do you explain to someone that you're physically okay, but mentally unable to leave your house?

I honestly don't know that I could get up right now, walk to the door, get in my car, turn the ignition, and drive ten minutes down the street. Let alone dry my hair from the exhausting shower I just took, put on makeup, or clothes that aren't loose fitting. As I wrote that sentence, I paused, so I could swing my legs up onto the couch and lie down. Even sitting up on the couch is too much work for me right now. But hours ago, I was fine.

But I'm never really "fine". The edginess that has been filtering into every moment for the last few weeks just culminated in what's happening now, sitting here on the couch. There is no such thing as an innocuous interaction. Everything means something when viewed through the eyes of a bipolar patient. Everything is a sign. And with these episodes, it's just a matter of time until the next one.

I'm exhausted. I'm not just tired now, I'm tired when I think about the future. When I think about how many more days of my life will be like this. Medication does not eradicate episodes. Medication makes them further apart and less severe. Maybe I need my medication reassessed, because this seems pretty bad. But I don't really remember what these felt like before Lamictal.

This is the second time in two weeks I've ended up in the gutter after waking up in a great mood.

The dogs can tell there's something wrong, and keep walking up to check on me. It's sweet.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how people live like this forever. I know that when I wake up tomorrow, it won't seem as dark or as bad. Even if I Don't believe that when I'm in it, I have gotten very good at convincing myself to just make it through the night. I am so good at the "just a few more hours" of bipolar disorder. The "just a few more days". It's the "Rest of your life" that is giving me fits at the moment.

I'm getting married. I am happy. I have an amazing partner. I have beautiful dogs. This week, two young women told me that I inspire them to make music. I haven't been able to make my own music in years. But I could be an example for others. I have a good job. I have health insurance. I have a support system. I have wonderful bridesmaids. Amazing family helping me make this wedding work.

And yet, I'm sitting here on this couch. Crying again.

I don't know how anyone can see the good in me, or see me as an inspiration, when the smallest thing can reduce me to a puddle of tears. I don't know how I can see the good in myself, or be inspired, when I am the Goliath, and life with bipolar is David.

This disease makes it so hard to trust myself. To see my value.

In the past two weeks, I have told Justin to be with someone who deserves him, because I don't. I'm terrified that someday, he will take me up on that.

Living with this makes me feel like I am in the Upside Down just a fraction of the time, but I never know when it will happen. I feel utterly powerless.

I'm writing it down so that later I can read it and remember, and maybe it will help me get through the next time I'm like this. Because there is always a next time. Maybe it will help someone else. Maybe publishing it is cathartic. Maybe it's all in my head.

It's definitely in my head. That's the trouble with it.