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.

Rotten Luck

On Saturday, July 8, I laid screaming and crying in bed while staring alternately at my phone and the ceiling. I lay there weeping uncontrollably, hyperventilating, eventually crawling to lie face down on the floor in a pile of laundry I had been too unmotivated to fold and put away, because the floor felt solid and my bed had felt too soft. The only thought that ran through my mind, the thought that was tearing through my mind and leaving me a puddle of incoherence in it's wake, was this: I want to die. I don't want to be alive. They are better off. I am nothing. I am worthless.

Thankfully, I don't have anything in my apartment that can get the job done. I looked. This was not the first time I had had a breakdown that culminated in suicidal thought, but it was the first time in awhile.

In March, I got too drunk by myself watching Shameless, drinking boxed wine and feeling the incomprehensible weight of just being me. I remember, fuzzily, walking out onto the front porch to smoke a cigarette, and wishing a car would tear up the street so that I could throw myself in front of it. I cried, alone on my porch, clutching a glass of wine, wishing for it to all be over. The next day, the thoughts scared me, and I pushed them to the back of my mind. These thoughts were not a surprise, though.

I've been feeling this way as long as I can remember.

Now, prior to these breakdowns, you'd never have guessed there was anything wrong with me. A little too boisterous, too talkative, but typically the life of the party. Or typically, trying to be. I was not, and do not present, as a "depressed" person. This was the diagnosis I claimed, and had done, for 14 years now. Over time, it's become clear to me and those around me that this initial diagnosis was a mistake.

A week prior to this most recent breakdown, I made a phone call to a psychologist while on my break at work.

"Hello, I'd like to make an appointment for a new patient. Yes, I'd like to be tested for bipolar disorder."

Even the words "bipolar disorder" feel foreign and terrifying when I say them. When you hear "bipolar", you think "crazy". Or at least, I do. My mother was a diagnosed manic depressive, though I didn't really know that until recently. Bipolar isn't just a mental illness, it's an insult you can hurl at anyone who seems slightly unbalanced. It's a death sentence for friendships and relationships. It's a roller coaster of rapid thought, paranoia, intense highs, and devastating lows.

There are seven markers for it, and I have all seven. Upon my first meeting with the psychologist, he told me that I was a "typical bipolar 1 case" and they could "put my picture in the textbook."

I don't know that it's possible to explain the rush of emotion. First, revulsion with myself. Then, relief that I wasn't crazy...I mean, I was definitely crazy, but not for thinking that there was something wrong with me. There WAS something wrong with me. Terror, that I would have to go on something like lithium or some similarly awful drug. And finally, some sort of acceptance that I had been this way my whole life, but that the way I was wasn't actually normal.

When your mother has manic depression and is not regularly treated for it, your definition of normal becomes somewhat skewed. I never considered that the way I flew off the handle when I was a child or teen at little to no provocation could be a "symptom" of a manic episode. Hysteria was just how I handled disappointment. There never has been any such thing as a "middle ground" for me. Since I was a child, people have commented on how my mood changes seemingly immediately with little to no warning. Everything is always the BEST THING or the WORST THING and there is no inbetween.

I dove in and started doing some research. My psychologist recommend I read "An Unquiet Mind", which is a memoir of a clinical psychologist who suffers form severe bipolar 1. I read it in a night. So many parts of that book were like looking in a mirror, or looking at my mother.

I told some of my friends as soon as I found out, and was surprised that some of them did not greet the news with support, but with denial.

"You don't seem depressed."
"You just have anxiety, you don't have bipolar disorder"
"I've never seen you be manic"
"You should get a second opinion"

This sucked, mostly because I felt like I finally had found something that made sense, and that explained the way that my brain worked. Maybe I have just been really good at hiding my crazy.

The thing I've learned is that bipolar disorder isn't just periods of highs and lows...it's things that become associated with those highs and lows. Mania can be everything from euphoria and spending 600 dollars in my savings account in a day to being incredibly irritable and paranoid. When I'm manic, I can be the light in a room, or I can be a black hole of negative energy. I have a compulsion to speak that I cannot control. This includes text messages. If I don't get an answer, I keep going. I say things I don't mean and don't remember saying them. Paranoia becomes the very air I breathe. Everyone is talking about me. Everyone thinks I'm awful to be around. No one likes me. No one is actually my friend. They're all conspiring against me. They pity me. They think I'm awful. They'd be happier if I weren't around.When I am manic, I am obsessive. I am impulsive and do things and say things without thinking. The part of my brain that checks myself before I wreck myself is g-o-n-e.

I am manic most of the time.

I have destroyed relationships because I can't stop talking or harping on one thing. I have destroyed friendships because I need constant reassurance that I am not the thing everyone is talking about. My brain is usually firing 1,000 thoughts per minute and I don't know how to slow it down or make it stop.

The most terrifying thing about all of this is that bipolar cannot usually be controlled with therapy alone, though my psychologist has been incredible in the 6 weeks I've been seeing him. Bipolar 1 is characterized by the manic episodes, but here lies the rub: my mania can be so incredibly productive. Before it goes up in flames, I want to create things. I have fun with my friends. I am social and fun and I don't need sleep, because sleep is for the weak. I can sleep less than three hours in a night and still want to clean the whole house. I want to write jokes, I want to perform, I want to start new hobbies and plan new endeavors.

When they medicate me, who says I won't disappear? Who says all of the things that make me who I am, that make me funny and sharp witted, all of those things, who says they won't just disappear in a haze of lithium or seizure medication or a combination of any number of drugs?

When they medicate me, who says I won't lose all of the things that make people like me in the first place?

I'm struggling hard through a peak of paranoia and as I typed that, I thought to myself, who says they like me at all, in the first place?

Bipolar disorder has a 19 percent suicide rate, so the choice for me is clear. I am going to seek out medication and a psychiatrist. I am going to continue seeing my psychologist. I am going to research and try to understand exactly what is going on in my head so that I can try to control it as best I know how, in the interim. It is a difficult thing to wrap my brain around, but I know I cannot continue in the way I have been doing. I cannot destroy any more relationships. I can't push away any more friends. I can't miss any more work because my mania breaks and I can't physically remove myself from my bed or my floor or make myself eat. I cannot continue hiding the things that I am struggling with because they are frightening to myself and to others when the most terrifying thing is that 19 percent of people lose this battle and their own hand casts the killing blow.

I've been thinking about writing something to this effect since I had that break over a month ago, but I couldn't put the words together to say what I wanted to say. I know I want to destigmatize mental illness. I know that my disease and who I am are not the same, when I am clear headed enough to think about them logically and separate myself. I know that I am scared a lot of the time, and that I loathe being lumped into a category of "crazy" people. I crave understanding and acceptance and for people to be patient with me, and with other people with mood disorders, as we navigate our way back to a "normal" we haven't ever actually known.

Ultimately, though, I know this:I can't push away any more friends. I can't miss any more work because my mania breaks and I can't physically remove myself from my bed or my floor or make myself eat. I cannot continue hiding the things that I am struggling with because they are frightening to myself and to others when the most terrifying truth is that 19 percent of people lose this battle and their own hand casts the killing blow.

Recovery is a process, as is understanding. Since receiving my diagnosis, I have been hyper aware of all of my moods, and questioning everything I know about myself. I have been more paranoid, felt my mania more distinctly, and let myself succumb more deeply to the throes of depression. They say that after a diagnosis of bipolar, patients report more severe symptoms, but I think they just become more aware of them. Our normal isn't "normal" at all.

So I write all this to say, be patient with me. Be patient with us.

I firmly believe there is a light, and in my darkest days, my biggest mood swings, I'm clinging to that, for whatever strength gets me through the day.

In "An Unquiet Mind", the author discusses her experience when she tells her lover at the time that she has bipolar disorder (though it was then called manic depression). He holds her in his arms, and only says to her one thing:

"Rotten luck."

And it is. It's a rotten spin in the genetic lottery. I didn't choose this. I never would have chosen this. The choice is what I do with the information. And I am here to say I am choosing to fight. And I'm choosing to be open with the struggle, so that hopefully others experiencing what I experience, or even close to it, won't feel so alone.

As Aragorn once said, "there is a day when the courage of Men fails...but it is not this day....this day, we fight."

So, I'm going to fight.

Just another day.

When I walked outside this morning, the air felt exactly like it did in California when I touched down in San Jose. The light is different, though.

I clutched the handle of my drunkenly packed suitcase so tightly I thought it would snap in half. I had made it. The connecting flight in Salt Lake City, where I only had a 30 minute layover, did not best me.

My rental car ended up being at a Hertz location clear across the city of San Jose, and I had no way to get there. I panicked. But even that didn't stop me; a saint who worked at the airport location volunteered to drive me to the other location. I still don't know why she did it. Maybe she took pity on me or could sense my panic. Regardless, even that didn't best me. An hour later, and I was in a rented Aveo driving toward Morro Bay, California, to say goodbye to my dying mother.

There is something so strange about being in a new place when you know you're going to do the hardest thing you've done in your life there. I remember driving down the interstate, listening to The Shins, while the sun was setting, and being struck with the true beauty of California. I had never been before. That feeling was immediately replaced by guilt. How could I be even slightly happy or comforted when my mother was dying? I laid the accelerator down a little more firmly, reminding myself that the reason I was in California were my grandmother's words from a few nights before:

She might not last the night.

Two hours later, I pulled into the driveway of the apartment my mother and stepfather shared. My stepfather, who I had not spoken to since I was 18, was thankfully not there yet. My grandmother, my older sister and her boyfriend, and my mother's youngest were there. My older sister called me and said she wanted to make sure I was really prepared for what I was about to see. I asked
"Well, how bad is it?" and she replied, "She's just really yellow."

So this was it. This was the moment. The first time I had seen my mother in five years. Our most recent phone conversation, when she gave me her prognosis, was the first time we had spoken in three months. When she told me she was scared, and I left work hyperventilating and crying to seek comfort in my favorite bar and tequila. Typical.

I walked into the room and it was as if the blood and breath went out of my body in a single, terrifying moment. There would be no conversation, no forgiveness, no explanation. She was not lucid. She had gone so fast. Her skin was a kind of yellow they don't make for crayons and paint. It looked waxy. Her skin was so yellow you couldn't see her tattoo anymore, the dolphin on her ankle.

I sat on the edge of the bed and my grandmother woke her up. She came to and my grandmother said "Nicole, look who made it. It's Morgan." Her eyes met mine and even the whites of her eyes were yellow. I had always loved my mother's eyes. Her smile always reached them, and they were filled with laughter when she was happy. This time, I had a hard time not looking away.

"Mom," I said, while fighting back years of emotion, pain, and held grudges. "Mom, I made it. Mom, I love you."

She sat up in bed as best she could, more of a lurching motion than a calculated one. I held her hand and for a minute, I hope, I think, she saw past the morphine haze and knew who I was. The light came back to her eyes briefly, and she said "I love you". Those were the last words my mother spoke to me, though she spoke some more as the week went on.

Following this exchange, I retreated to the porch to smoke cigarettes. Tears poured out of me. It's a kind of pain that I simply cannot describe. I cried until I thought I might vomit. I cried until my eyes were swollen. My chest hurt to the point that I thought I would die. Even recalling this moment now, my chest hurts still.

I always thought I would have more time to repair my relationship with my mother. When I grieve here, I'm not only grieving the beautiful woman I envied my entire childhood, I'm grieving the woman I never really got to know. I moved away to save myself from a terrible environment.  I truly believe if I had lived with her as a teenager, I would have ended my own life.

It's funny how quickly I wanted to forgive her when I knew she only had a few more days.

On the second or third day I was there, my grandmother wanted to give us each our space to make our peace with our mother. Everyone left the room. I held her hand sitting next to her in a chair I had pulled up to the bed. I desperately wished there had been room for me to crawl into bed with her one more time, like I had as a kid, when I would wake in the night from a terrible dream. This was the terrible dream, though, and there was no way to be comforted. I guess that's what adulthood really is.

I told her that I forgave her for all of the lies. I told her I forgave her for the drinking, for the abuse, for everything she had said and done, for all of the things she told me about myself that I believed were true for so long. And then I told her how sorry I was that I couldn't save her, that I left when i Was fourteen, that I didn't call, that I selfishly let my pain and my pride get in the way of a relationship with her.

I sang her the Garth Brooks song we used to sing to my little sister together. I sang her amazing grace. I searched my brain for other religious songs I could sing, to comfort her, or I guess myself, but even with my music degree from a Christian university, I came up with nothing.

I stepped outside to smoke. The light in California is something to behold. Everything seems to have a glow around it. The breeze was soft and chill, and I could hear the gulls cawing and the sea lions barking in the bay. It shimmered in the distance.

If I die anywhere, let it be California.

My stepdad gave me a crisp 100 dollar bill and told me to drive up to Hearst Castle, the estate of the late William Randolph Hearst. Apparently my mother had loved it there. Hearst used to throw parties for some of the biggest names in Hollywood, political figures, etc. My mother would have fit right in.

My stepdad made it a point to tell me how proud my mother was of me. I thought it was funny because whenever she and I talked, it was to scream at each other.  It was nice to know, even if it wasn't true. I choose to believe it was. She and I were never great at communication.

The Hearst estate was a welcome and beautiful distraction. I saw some zebras, remnants of his long gone zoo, grazing along the side of the road. I stopped and saw elephant seals lazily basking on the shoreline, kicking sand upon themselves like thin blankets.

At this point, everyone was gone except my grandfather and my aunt Noel. Having her there meant the world to me. At this point, I learned my grandfather had also struggled with alcoholism. He beat it, though.

I left because I didn't think I could handle being in the room when she died. When I got the news that she had died, I was about to drive through a Starbucks drive through. That was a year ago today.

Grief, for me, isn't something that is going away. When I first came back to Tennessee, I felt like I was underwater and I couldn't breathe. It took me awhile to get back to work. I didn't want to be touched. I had no interest in male attention. When I finally did come back to work, I was a raging bitch. Stress got to me more.

I thought after a few months went by I would be fine. I wasn't. I was making irresponsible decisions with my emotions. I entered into a relationship with someone because I really wanted to be with someone, and I truly cared for him, but I'm not sure I would have done that if I weren't still struggling with the grief. I relapsed back into my eating disorder for a few months. I started drinking heavily.

I denied that any of this had to do with grief, or with guilt.

It's a year later. I made it. A milestone. I missed her on her birthday and thought of all the times I said I would send a card, and didn't. I missed her on mother's day. I missed her when I smelled blistex or vaseline lotion, and when I was Christmas shopping in Target and had to leave because I was so blinded by tears I couldn't read price tags anymore.

I missed her on my birthday and on Christmas and listened to old voicemails she had left me just so I could hear her voice. I feel like  my sadness has turned me into a cliche.

Its been a year and I'm just now starting to feel like myself, and like I can breathe again. There are days I don't think about her much at all, and then feel guilty for forgetting about it.

There are still days where I can't physically get out of bed because the sadness and the loss is that deep.

A year is a pretty short time. I wish she could see me now. I'd love to have her make fun of my hair color choice, or see me do stand up comedy, or meet my dog. She would love Oz. I see other people have their milestone moments, weddings, children, and selfishly my first thought is anger that my own mother will never see me through moments like that. She won't dance at my wedding, if there is one. If i Had kids, which I likely won't, she won't know them. She won't see me get my graduate degree or my doctorate. It's like she stopped knowing me at our last good memory.

I miss you, mom. I miss you calling me fourteen times in a row until I picked up the phone. I miss you never having figured out time zones and time differences between California and Tennessee. I miss your laugh and your handwriting and the way you always smelled. I miss you waking up at midnight to cook boil in a bag rice. I miss you giving me your clothes and jewelry whenever I visited. I stole some when I left California, but I didn't think you'd mind.

I wonder if this day will ever get easier for me. I wonder if this pain will ever really go away, but I think it will stay with me forever. I am so lucky to have an amazing family and supportive friends who have stuck with me through the mood swings, the drunken crying, and the conversations about my mother. For those of you who stuck around to the end to read this, damn, you must either really care or be really bored.

Most importantly, what happened to my mother has allowed me to take a deep look inward at both my drinking and my mental health and monitor them closely so I don't take a similar path. I still haven't made it to a grief counselor, more out of pride than anything else, but I know my mother wouldn't want me to suffer. She really did want everyone to be happy and healthy. That was something I took for granted about her.

Today, when I walked outside, the air felt exactly like it did when I landed in San Jose, but I feel different than I did that day.

I may never be healed, but I am healing. And I love you, Mom.