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.

Hello darkness, my old friend.

Last July, I pulled myself out of bed as if I was deadlifting my soul and dragged myself to the bathroom.  I remember it was a sunny day, and hot. I remember that the air in my apartment felt stifling and thick.  I flung open the medicine cabinet and scanned each label. Antibiotics I never finished. Ibuprofen that was almost gone. Nothing poisonous. No heavy hitters capable of doing harm.

I knew there was no alcohol in the house.  I had drank it all the previous nights.

I shuffled to the kitchen and opened the cutlery drawer.  My roommate had moved out a few months prior, taking her sharpest knives.  There were only a few dull ones left. 

I started to panic.  Was I actually thinking of doing this? Was I finally going to go through with this? Was it going to be over? I wanted it to be over. I was done. I hurt. Everything hurt.

I was shaking as I willed myself back to my bedroom and shut the door. I convinced myself there was nothing in the house that could help me. I just needed to calm down.  Nothing helped me calm. Nothing quieted my mind. I messaged a friend. She told me to go get help. The idea terrified me. I feel bad for messaging her, almost a year later. That wasn’t fair to put on anyone, least of all a friend of mine. 

This was the moment I knew I needed help, and that I couldn't do this alone. That the shame of seeking help was nothing compared to what I would do to my loved ones if I couldn't make it through this day.  I remember telling myself I had to live, if only for my dog, Oz. I ended up at a friend's house in Alabama that night.  The next day, I had my first date with my now fiance. 

This wasn't my first breakdown, my first close call. I've been thinking about suicide since I was young, sometimes, not even my own. Like many little girls, I was terrified of losing my parents, but with my mother, I had a specific fear. I was worried that my mother would kill herself.  I remember distinctly, in a summer she was sleeping much more than usual, that I was worried she would hurt herself.  I think I was 11 or so.  That same summer, I wrote her a note and left it on her bed, letting her know that I was sorry I was such a bad daughter, and that I did love her very much, and I was sorry I couldn’t be better.  She came running into my room, obviously distraught, because she thought that I had hurt myself and that was my last communication to her.

I wrote my first suicide note when I was I was 13.  I remember looking at the disposable razors in our shower and wondering how I could disassemble them to hurt myself.  I remember feeling utterly alone, worthless, and vile. That’s really all I remember from that summer, that feeling of deep self loathing.

Suicidal ideation and I are more than just acquainted.  I know it intimately. Like the jealous ex boyfriend I cannot seem to elude.  I ask it to leave, and it does for awhile.  But like that ex boyfriend, I know it’s just a matter of time before it’s knocking on my door. No matter how many times I change my address.

Suicidal ideation is the best gaslighter I know. It tells me that my reality isn’t real. I do not have worth, friends, or family.  In fact, I’m a burden. Those people would be so much better off without me.  And if I don’t do something about it, I’m weak. If I don’t help these people by removing myself from their lives, I am the weakest person.

We view victims of suicide as the weak ones, when really, they’re trying to be strong.  We post things on Facebook about reaching out to our friends and family, but aren’t willing to put in the work. We ask one another to be kind , but forget to be kind when mental illness shows us who it really is: it’s clever, it’s manipulative, and controlling. Mental illness is a resilient shape shifting shadow that follows me wherever I go. That follows others wherever they go.

So then, there is Anthony Bourdain. When I was in college, I was in a particularly unhealthy and abusive relationship that I felt I could not escape.  This ex boyfriend introduced me to Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations” and I was hooked. Here was a man who was passionate about culture, about travel, about living, and not just passively.  He was a brilliant story teller. He helped me through a hard time in my life by showing me where I could go, what I could do, that there was a world out there for me outside of my circumstance, my terribly relationship, my self doubt.  I wanted to see the world. I wanted to live to see the world. I knew I idolized him, but I didn’t realize how much watching him and learning from him changed me until this morning, when I heard he had died. Seeing so many posts on social media about who he was, who he helped, how open and honest he was with his struggles and his demons…it’s haunting. It’s tragic. It’s horrifying. Selfishly, I see a person of great success take their life and think “well, that’s it. It’ll be me someday. I’m prolonging the inevitable.”

With every suicide, the following statistic floats to the front of my brain and stays for days:

                                          “1 in 5 bipolar patients commit suicide”

I can’t claim to know what Bourdain’s motivations were.  All I know is that on the surface last summer, when I was digging around in drawers to find a knife sharp enough to end it all, I looked calm to friends, family, and coworkers. I seemed stable. Only those closest to me knew what was going on.  I know that when my fiancé proposed to me in February, I was elated, and two days later, had a breakdown so bad I could barely function. I know that when I think of suicide today, it seems a far off possibility, but that can change in a blink of an eye. My good friend Suicidal Ideation is watching. Waiting. Familiar. The succubus of the self assured front I present to family, friends, and the world. The front that even I believe, sometimes.

It’s exhausting explaining this to people who mean well when they try to help but don’t understand what it’s like. Is suicide weakness? Is it strength? Is it simply succumbing to an illness that will follow you for the rest of your life? Is it a mercy killing? Is it selfish? I have been suicidal when I’ve been calm. I’ve been suicidal in times of crisis when my best friend recommended I check myself into a crisis center. I’ve been suicidal driving down the street. I’ve been suicidal in a crowded room. I’ve been suicidal when I’m smiling, laughing, the life of the party, the greatest showman.

I don’t understand it. I don’t understand myself.  I want people to listen and watch, but how do they know what to watch for? I want people to care for each other and be kind. I know how hard that is when mental illness is such a deep part of who I am, and that person is not always a good person. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to hurt those that I love. And I am not suicidal now.

But I could be soon. Like a summer thunderstorm. Like a tired simile explaining the same thing in the same essay because I am lost and hurt and confused. We treat life as if it is the greatest gift but don’t know what to do when that gift is like an IKEA coffee table arriving without instructions.

My brain isn’t like yours. My bipolar brain isn’t like a depressed brain, a schizophrenic brain, or an ADHD brain. How do we treat this? How do we talk about it?

I don’t know. I don’t know how to let people know that it’s okay to not be okay, or that it’s okay for me to not be okay. I know how to intercept my own crises, but not the crises of others. I don't know how to help. I want to help. I want people to stop dying.

All of our time here is limited. I strive to keep stable. I mourn those who run out of spoons for this mortal coil. I hoard my spoons and stack them around me like a Helm's Deep of self care.

I don't know where we go from here, or who will be next. But please, listen to us. And please be kind to each other.

Dear Brain, You're an Asshole

Last Sunday, my boyfriend got down on one knee and asked me to be his partner for life. I was not surprised. We had talked about this day since about one month into our relationship. When you know, you know, and all that.

Earlier this evening, my now-fiance lifted me up under the armpits so that I could stand and walk to the bathroom, because I went from 100 to 0 in a matter of days. I am in the midst of a post-breakdown depression. I don't know how long this one will last. I know that typing right now takes great effort. I keep writing a sentence, reading it, staring at the screen, then trying to write another sentence.

I am exhausted.

When people think of triggering events, or at least when I do, I don't think of positive things. I think of being reprimanded at work, getting into a small altercation with a friend, something that tips me from being "Stable" on the spectrum to worse than stable, or slightly better than stable. It's clear to me that this time, the triggering event was Justin's proposal.

Brain, you are an asshole.

I am not depressed about getting married. Far from it. I am elated. I was so happy, I started immediately planning. I have been reading wedding blogs all week. I close my eyes and see wedding dresses. I was planning the bridal party. Figuring out a date. Thinking, thinking, thinking that turned into obsessing, obsessing, obsessing. Signs started to show themselves. My excitement, my pure and good and wholesome feeling of "yay", had gained momentum. I'm getting better at recognizing.

Always a song in my head. Always wanting a drink in my hand. Wanting to go out, wanting to be social, thinking, thinking, thinking, talking, talking, talking. Losing sleep. Lying in bed until 2 or 3 or 4 am, while Justin soundly slept beside me, not able to turn off the thoughts. Having a broken spigot in your bathroom is annoying. Imagine having one in your head. There is nowhere for the overflowing thoughts to spill. They just collect, build up, create pressure. It's not sustainable. Mania is euphoria, for me, in the early days, but it is not sustainable. Fireworks are beautiful but they are essentially just controlled explosions. That's what it's like in my head, when I start to feel good.

I trust no good emotion because I know where it can lead.

I knew it was happening about two days in. I said to Justin "I bet I'll have a breakdown by the end of the week."

And I was right.

I left work today due to a bipolar episode for the first time in around 8 months because I could feel the walls of my sanity falling like Jericho in my head. I described it to a friend as feeling like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and the only thing keeping me from falling over was gusts of powerful wind from below. It's a cold and terrifying and terrible feeling, feeling your stability melt away. For me, it's like cupping water in my hands, and watching it slowly slip through the cracks. Try as I might, I can't hold onto the water forever. I will always try and scoop more up. I don't want to give up. But I am so tired.

I took a Xanax at work and waited, and realized that it took the edge off, but not nearly enough. I was falling apart, frozen at my desk. An elephant comprised of guilt and my own expectations had taken up residence on my chest. How dare I miss a day of work for something as silly as bipolar disorder? Were my arms broken? Was I have a heart attack? Couldn't I just take some deep breaths, and just get over it?

 No thought, no focus, just a heavy awareness of my own breath, my heartbeat, I was physically okay. Except, I wasn't, because bipolar disorder lives in the physical organ of my brain.

I walked to my car in a daze, freezing in the warmth of March's first sunny day. Just. Keep. It. Together.

I sat, hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, and the first sob wrenched through my chest like a cannonball. They kept coming. Tears washed mascara into my eyes and they stung and burned. My heart throbbed in my ribcage, each beat seeming to say "you're alive, you're alive, you're alive." Every sob seemed to mourn that fact.

"Here lies Morgan's stability. Aged 8 months. Rest in Peace."

When I was younger and I would cry, my mom would tell me to smile at myself in the mirror, because that made crying seem impossible. I looked in the mirror, tried to smile, and watched my face crumple.

I went home, laid on the couch, tried to read, and slept. I slept for hours. I am still tired.

I am so tired.

I am tired of not trusting my feelings because I don't know what they will lead to. I am tired of medication making me feel forgetful even if it fixes almost every other problem. I am tired of bearing the knowledge that I will sometimes be stable, but never be cured.

I am so, so tired of people assuming that I am not doing everything I can to get better. That I want this.

I attached a picture to this so that maybe people will understand. This is what bipolar disorder can look like. This is what it looked like for me today. This is what it's like to have the best thing in your life trigger an episode that leaves you unable to pick  yourself up off of the couch yourself.

Brain, you are an asshole.

Mental Illness Takes No Holiday

**DISCLAIMER: This is a post about how awful mental illness is, not about any feelings toward Australia. Australia has been lovely to me! My brain has not.


Good evening from Australia!

When I decided two years ago that I was finally going to make Australia happen, the unthinkable, the unfathomable for someone who had dreamed of it for 13 years, I planned. I planned extensively. I saved, pulling every chunk of extra cash I could into my savings account. Every commission check I got while I was in the position I made the most money in went directly into my savings account for two years. Through my mother passing away and my savings account suffering so I could see her before she went (of course, I don't regret this), through several car repairs, roommates leaving, insane water and sewer bills, unexpected expense in general, I never gave up (though I wanted to). In July, I started seeing a fantastic, loving, caring, better-than-me-in-every-way man, and things got far more serious far more quickly than I ever thought would happen to me. The only time I considered postponing the trip as seriously as I ever did, was because I didn't want to lose him. This had been the dream, in the back of my mind, for years. Through high school, college, terrible relationships, death, diagnosis, this was the dream. So I planned.

When I purchased my plane ticket in August, I started to plan aggressively. I downloaded a countdown app on my phone. I started saving even more money than I had previously. I made sure my ducks were in a row. Travel insurance. Checking with my phone company about coverage. And finally, with two weeks to go, I planned obsessively. Checklists, checklists, checklists. Obsessively weighing my suitcase. Obsessively measuring my carry on and personal item, because just once wasn't enough. Three times wasn't enough. Almost backing out several times out of fear, financial investment being one of the only reasons I didn't. And of course, there was The Dream.

The reason for the dream is fairly layered and multi faceted and complicated. When I was in middle school, I had very few friends. I'm not sure why. I'm sure a lot of it had to do with my broken household, that led to some unsavory behaviors in my early adolescence. I couldn't really relate to many of my peers. We were fairly poor, and kids could be cruel. My father had shared with his daughters his love for the literature of J.R.R Tolkien. When I was in middle school, the first film was released. I was swept away. (Before any of you correct me and say Hey, that was filmed in New Zealand. I know. Wait for it.). I've always been a bit of an obsessive person (see above re: measuring suitcases). So I was obsessed. I took to the Internet to try and teach myself a bit of Elvish (Quenya, if you must know). Somehow, I ended up on an MSN message board, back before even Instant Messaging was REALLY the thing, and I found some boards of people writing fan fiction, back and forth, with their characters going on adventures. I immediately dreamed up an elf named Nevtellumaien (I'll never forget how to spell her name) and joined in the fun. This was when my relationship with my mother was particularly strained, and I was having issues socially at school, and this community became a sort of escape for me. I loved the stories we would tell, and eventually we did add each other on MSN Messenger, and talked almost every day. We talked about boys, life, school, Lord of the Rings, everything. Myspace happened, and then Facebook, and I've managed to keep in contact with two of the people I met through those boards, and one fellow I met through them, because I needed someone else to talk to. All in all, a kind of amazing, one of a kind (at least back then) friendship that was altogether unexpected. Lauren, the woman I am staying with now, was the one I stayed the closest with for years. Our relationship came and went, as did our ability to communicate, but she was always there ready for a conversation. All of these people were Australian (well, one had moved from elsewhere when we started speaking). And so, when things were particularly bad with my mom in my first year of high school, I started dreaming of a land far away where I could be as far as possible from the conflict, see some spectacular sights, and meet these friends who had become a big part of my life over the last year or so. The first time I started saving for Australia, it was in a K-Swiss box in my bedroom in the basement, where I rolled up my extra money (ha!) and stuck it in. I had gotten up to roughly 300 dollars when I crashed my mother's car in a school parking lot while visiting my dad, and I came home to all but 40 of my hard saved money gone.

Needless to say, this has been a dream for a long time, rooted in friendships that meant a lot to me as a teen, because I didn't have many other people to talk to. My older sister had a great group of close friends, and I always felt like I had no one to talk to. Somewhere around when all of this was happening, I started to manifest symptoms of what was misdiagnosed as depression, that I now understand were early signs of bipolar disorder.

Before I left Chattanooga, my psychologist and I discussed the reality that it was possible I would end up in an episode, whether full blown or just experiencing symptoms more sharply, while in a foreign country. I spoke to my psychiatrist afterward, and he agreed we should increase the dosage on one of my medications, as well as prescribe me something for as-needed anxiety. Obviously the goal was to need neither of those things. The reality, it turns out, has been it was very necessary. The issue with bipolar (well, there are many) is that so many of the symptoms are rather insidious, and come out of nowhere. Small interactions can "trigger" an awakening of these symptoms. For example, what they call "forced speech" or "rapid thought". These, for me, often occur simultaneously. Today, after hiking six miles in the beautiful Blue Mountains, I had a misunderstanding with a friend back in the States that was, admittedly, my fault. A "normal" person would apologize once, let it go, and move on with their day. Bipolar patients can have extreme emotional reactions to things, and so I did. I freaked out (internally), then came the forced speech, the rapid thought, the paranoia of being hated. The symptoms that have plagued me since adolescence, that I am only now beginning to really control and identify and attempt to slow down. I felt sick. Humiliated. Down on myself. And I realized, I shouldn't have just been concerned about a "manic"episode, or mini episode, and I had greatly underestimated the power of a "Depressive" episode while overseas and away from my support group, several thousands of miles away, and several time zones away. I would have felt better had I been able to take my anxiety medication straight away, to stop the anxiety from taking over my brain completely, but I had left it back at Lauren's, where it was useless to stave off the symptoms. I took one when I got home, but now I am "in it", as Natalie Portman's mother in "Garden State" used to say. A normal person could brush it off, even my friend needing to take a break from chatting with me, because at the end of the day, it's not the end of the world. But to me, these interactions, they always feel like the end of the world. They almost always have. The things that trigger my breakdowns, like this one, are small. I once had a full blown meltdown, come-down from mania, because I left my debit card at home, and didn't realize until I was trying to pay at the grocery store.

This innocuous thing triggered a melt down so violent I spent two hours in bed, unable to stop crying, while my beautiful boyfriend held me and comforted me, convinced I'd be better off if I killed myself, the world would be a better place, my family would thank me, I wouldn't hurt anymore, and everyone wins.

Over a simple mistake, the simple act of being unable to pay at the grocery store, something so easily fixable, that in the moment, seemed insurmountable, and a tragedy. The grocery store didn't have it's feelings hurt, it's day affected, but my friends who deal with me often do. I become too much.

When I was planning for my trip, my great international adventure, I didn't not think to plan for what I would do, should something like this happen. I just assumed it wouldn't, or if anything cropped up, it would be manic in nature, and I'd ride the wave. I didn't consider that I could be in one of the most beautiful places in the entire world, and feel useless, horrible, entitled, idiotic, humiliated, or any other number of emotions and thoughts that fly through my head as if they're the starship Enterprise flying at Warp Speed. Add this in to my homesickness settling in, and it's a rough evening. Mania is terrifying, but makes a sunset tinged with euphoria makes the world, the natural beauty, electric. A depressive episode, not to be confused with clinic depression, robs me of the joy of that same sunset, making it feel like a lonely end to a lonely day in a lonely life. Regardless of how beautiful my life is at home. Regardless of the fact that I'm realizing my dream. So there is now not only the guilt and panic of the interaction I had this afternoon, there is the guilt that I was triggered by it, that I'm now in a deep, dark pit, that I woke my boyfriend up to discuss it, that I'm not better, that I can't shake it off, that I desperately want to, that I'm letting it ruin this experience of a lifetime. The truth is, no one "lets"  an episode run it's course. They just do. They have a life of their own, the way a virus grows and multiplies, the way a cancer metastasizes across an entire body. My episodes, full blown or not, make me toxic to myself and those closest to me. Later, when I am feeling stable again, I'll look back and be able to clearly tell the emotions I felt at the time.

I want it to clear up quickly, and I hope it does. My medication has a great reputation for pulling people out of the Dark Place, as I call it (related note, when I'm like this, my room becomes my Depression Den.) Maybe I should have waited to take this trip until I was better at stabilizing myself regardless of my medication, but that can take years. It can take years for people with bipolar to become highly functioning.

There comes with this the added bonus of feeling like I'm blaming my behaviors on the bipolar when really I might just be a shit person. Sometimes, when I'm feeling like I feel now, I feel I'm just a shit person.

I didn't want my first blog post about Australia to be about something like this, but unfortunately, these things are uncontrollable. I can't just live in a bubble because I'm worried something might trigger a symptom or an episode. I am actively working in therapy on recognizing these triggers when they happen, and calming myself down, so these things don't evolve into what they are now: me, on my friends couch, in a bubble of chemical calm produced by an anxiety medication, that only barely shuts up the dogs barking in my head. The dogs barking that are saying I'm useless.

As far as the trip goes, I'm floored with the beauty of this country. The water at Manly Beach was only shockingly cold for a split second, likely due to the heat of the day. I'm sunburnt on my face and back and shoulders, a small price for the walk through Sydney. I've had my photo taken in front of the iconic bridge, the iconic opera house, the Blue Mountains. My hosts, Lauren and her partner, have been incredible and hospitable. If everyone in Australia is like this, the Southeast has a serious adversary when it comes to charm and hospitality. Tomorrow, we'll head to Wollongong beach for the day, and I'll bask in the sun of the beautiful beach, and hopefully, feel much better. Saturday, I'll meet up with another friend from yesteryear, and meet his lovely girlfriend. Hopefully, I'll think about how lucky I am to have been in a position for two years where I could save, where I could realize this dream. I'll thank the universe for my sunburns, for my tired legs, for the inevitable bruise on my ankle where a bearded dragon ran full tilt into me while we were bushwalking today (yes, seriously). These are all beautiful things. Hopefully this will be shortlived, and I'll reclaim some joy. This is a place to be joyful. This is the adventure of a lifetime. This was The Dream more than marriage or children was ever The Dream for me.

Bipolar doesn't take vacations. Wherever you go, there YOU are. My brain didn't become balanced because I crossed the International Dateline and into the future. My triggers didn't disappear.

But really, I wish they'd fuck right off, and let me fully immerse and enjoy this beautiful country without a feeling of dread and self hatred hanging over me. And no, I can't just "get over it." I would if I could. I can try, but it's exhausting. and I walked six miles today.

I miss my boyfriend, one of the only people who can help with these moods, even after having experienced them for only six months. I miss my dog. I miss the smell of my city. And it's hard to feel this way without those comforts that ground me, that say "you're home, you belong, you're loved." Today I'm a little heartsick AND brainsick. And I'm a bit too much.

Tomorrow will hopefully be better. And if it's not, I'll deal. But today was lovely, and I still feel awful.

Bipolar takes no vacations, but I'll fight like hell to kick it off of this one.

Thanks for listening.