Rough Days

I’m sure you have had off days occasionally or you feel just dragged down and like nothing is going right for you.  I’m sure you have had weepy days where you just feel sad and unmotivated and maybe even like staying in bed all day.

Everybody has days like those.

Or everybody has had days that they have so much energy that they feel like they can accomplish anything—that you are the best at your job and can do no wrong.  Good days and bad days--just part of being human.

Now imagine that the off day doesn’t ever end.  You feel like there is no way to escape, other than possibly suicide.  You don’t want to get out of bed, you can’t squeak out a complete sentence because you can’t get the words together in your head to make any sense at all.

Sometimes all you can do is lie on your bed or the couch and stare off into space, not thinking of anything at all, just staring, unable to move. You don’t feel like showering or going anywhere or seeing anyone. You don’t feel like eating because what’s the point?

Then you turn around and suddenly you are so angry that you can’t get the rage under control.  Usually it is over some little insignificant thing that 30 minutes later you can’t even remember why you were mad, but still can’t shake that “I hate the world and everyone in it” feeling.

Or the worst is feeling so hyper that you think you can do anything.  You have boundless energy, but you can’t control that either, so you get really crazy and do some bizarre and dangerous things.  You are insulting and hateful and despite all your energy, can’t seem to accomplish anything because you are trying to do too much at once and can’t stay focused on the task at hand.

This is my life.

From the bottom of the barrel, to the top of the mountain, and back down again—hard and fast and painful.

This is something that has certainly plagued my adult life and prevents me from realizing the potential that I may have once possessed, but seem to have lost somewhere over the last twenty years. This is the only me my kids have ever known and I’m sure it has messed them up pretty well.  I hope not, because I would never be able to forgive myself if that happened.  But I am not a very good mother.  That fact has been well established over the years.

Even though in my adult life, this illness has totally and fully manifested itself, I really think this is something that is just part of my chemical makeup and has been from day one.  I don’t know how I was as a little kid, but I know by the time I was in elementary school that things were already a little off.  I really believed that no one liked me, that I was fat and ugly and didn’t deserve any friends.

I remember several times when I was about 10, that I imagined all the kids from my class were standing around my bed and pointing and laughing and saying how ugly and fat I was.  It was like it was real—that they were really there and I couldn’t get away from them.  It happened at night, it happened in the morning.  I would even wake up in the middle of the night with them there.  I guess that was the first indication that I was not alright.  I never told anyone then, because I was afraid I really was crazy.  Plus I knew my mother would just laugh at me and tell me I was ridiculous and to get over it.  Just like always.

By the time I was about 12, I really had become an outsider.  Everything in my life was dark, my friends were mostly losers and outsiders.  I just hated my life.  I wanted to die, but I was too scared.  By the time I made it to high school, I did make some close friends, but I could never explain to them or anyone else how I felt.  I never really had boyfriends.  Oh, one or two here or there, but they thought nothing of me, other than a sex toy—not a person.

College wasn’t much better, in fact it was probably worse.  As soon as I graduated, I got married to the first guy that could remember my name.  It didn’t last long, of course, only a year or less.  But it was really the first time that my illness really became obvious.  I was finished with school and managing a Burger King, but I was also really having a tough time focusing and I would lose it fairly often at home.  Small wonder he ultimately left.


Once, when I was married this first time, my husband came home to find me in tears over a plant that was dying.  I couldn’t get it out of my head that I would never be able to keep a family alive if I couldn’t keep a stupid plant alive.  I was out of my mind with grief and unable to function. Nothing he did helped and everything he tried just made me more and more angry.

Another time, I was cooking dinner and he was trying to tell me what order to put the ingredients in for mac ‘n’ cheese.  I didn’t want to listen and threw a temper tantrum about it.  Ultimately, everything ended up on the floor and I refused to clean it up.  He wanted to be in charge, then let him do it.  We divorced not much longer after that.

Eventually, I moved back home and was fairly calm for awhile.  I was working on losing weight—not very effectively, but trying.  I guess I had always viewed my problems as stemming from my weight.  My mother always told me I was fat and I understood I wasn’t very attractive.  I had no idea that my erratic behavior might be what drove people away.  I had no true idea of how erratic my behavior was, in fact.

Over the next few years, I did date a little, but nothing serious.  I think I was so desperate and so needy that every guy could sense it and didn’t want anything to do with that.

Eventually, though, I met a man that I still believe to be my soul mate. He had the maturity and the sense to realize that something was really wrong with me.  He is the first one that recognized that I needed help. He checked me into the psych ward at our local hospital.  They decided I was an alcoholic and sent me to treatment.

At the treatment facility, I wasn’t medicated at all, but my problems shone through.  The counselor even told me that I wasn’t ready to admit that I was an alcoholic, but that I had some other issues that I needed to work through with a psychiatrist, and that I probably needed medication.  She was right.  I wasn’t ready to admit I was an alcoholic (I still don’t think I am.  I don’t crave alcohol and I can take it or leave it.  Even when I go out, I will only have a couple of beers or whiskey cokes.  I don’t have any interest in getting drunk, so I still don’t believe her.)  She did, however, plant the seed that I had other problems I would need to be dealt with first.  I just didn’t know what they were.

Ultimately, after a few more hospitalizations, I was diagnosed with bipolar depression.  Once I started on some medication, it helped.  I started to be able to see things more clearly and I wasn’t so emotional anymore.  I could focus on my job, and everything started to get a little better.  Unfortunately, the effectiveness of many medications wear off or lessen over time.  So every couple years, I begin to fall apart and need to try something different.

Another problem with the meds is that they can cause you to gain weight, which simply mortifies me.  If I start to gain weight, I panic and stop taking it.  This, of course, sends me into a tailspin again.  Sometimes, I just run out and then don’t have any money to get the refill.  I don’t drive anymore, so I am dependent on my mother to take me places and she hates to “waste her time” to do this, especially to get prescriptions filled.  She doesn’t think I need them, but can’t deal with me when I am off them.

I ultimately did get married again, but I’m sure it was out of desperation, too.  He needed someone to take care of him and I needed someone to take care of me.  We had two beautiful girls over the 5 years we were married.  Then he found someone to move on with and started cheating on me with her.  I divorced him.  He stayed married to her for 5 years also, and then moved on from her.  She got revenge, though, and accused him of molesting one of her daughters.  He is in prison now for the next 7 years.  Shit happens.

It has been 15 years since we divorced and my problems still flare up fairly often.  I try to deal with it as best I can, but I don’t always do it successfully.  I have attempted suicide a couple of times and overdosed a couple times, too.  I can no longer seem to hold a job for very long anymore.  I have slept with a few men since then, but as I have said before, I am prepared to spend the rest of my life alone. Once my kids are grown, then no one but me has to deal with the problem.

I have considered applying for social security disability, based on my mental illness and the fact that I seem to have injured my knee beyond help.  I can’t stand very long and my energy wanes very quickly once I start doing something.  I guess that is an option I should explore.  I should also probably get out and walk to build up my strength and maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.  I may even get to lose some more weight.

Some good things have happened over the years.  I have managed to lose over 100 pounds and I am still trying to lose more.  I have about 50 more to go.  I have wonderful, beautiful, intelligent daughters who are the lights of my life.  They are simply amazing and I love them with all my heart. I wouldn’t still be alive if I didn’t have them.  There is a long road ahead of us, but we can make it together.

Peace and love,

Angela