Today for some reason. The date of November 13 in the year of 2013, I am having an image crisis. Now I have read enough self help books and books about having a mental illness that image problems arise for us with so called "mental health" problems. I turned 44 in August and I am beginning to double think the label. I grew up in nice houses, weekend at the New Jersey Shore. Dinner on the table by 5:30pm, grace said, normal talking between my father and I about religion and history because we had that in common, but beneath those Norman Rockwell moments, their lurked a family secret that even us siblings, as adults has caused a rift. No one else in my family might see it, but I do. You know why? It's the questions and the quiet insinuations of irresponsiblitty. And I have only myself to blame. I thought when I got diagnosed as Bipolar, I thought, if I talked about it with my family and tried to make them understand that it would help, but I feel like it back fired. I thought all the times I got out of control and over dosed, my family would try to understand. But nothing ever worked. It was just better swept under the rug, but because I have been so open, I am now crazy and no matter what I do I have some agenda. And that is what was on my mind today;my agenda.
I have a serious illness besides dealing with my bipolar. I lost my stomach, when the base of my esphogus burst and in turn killed my stomach. I am now fighting an infection of my mouth, but I'm not sure when I'll be feeling better. I was put on an antibiotic the End of October, but on Friday November 8th or early Saturday 9th at 3am, I had my husband take me to the ER with a temp of 101.9. So now I'm dealing with another killer illness ( If you don't think mental illness is a killer, watch the news, read a paper, pay attention!) So my thought was ok, I survived my father, my siblings and I are not as close as I would like, but I can only do so much. If I'm to get the blame so be it. I don't know what I did, so I can't attone for hurt.
What I am left with who am I? What makes me "me" I don't even recognize me. I feel my sense of humor and the part of me that was part hard-ass/part teddy bear is MIA. Now I am just here. My dream of being a writer seems to have gone and it makes me sad. From the moment I picked up my crayons and made a story out of the pictures I drew, there was a purpose for my being here in my head. Now that my illnesses seem to have taken over my life and time, that my creative garden in my head is full of dead flowers, overgrown weeds, the perfect white fence I built to keep my ideas in, is all run down. My creative mind has become a ghost town. I have a life time of stories that I could write about my life. Full length novels, but I just am so drained that I don't look at it like it would be cathartic.
I feel totally stripped, I have all the memories and the ones I don't have can be filled in. My Mom had 6 kids and all 6 of us would have different stories. I ruined a siblings life because I did something stupid at 14 because I was tired of being my fathers punching bag. But what I did, eclipsed the reason why and then I turned around and said I made it up because I was protecting my Mother for my younger siblings, while she should have been the one to protect us.
So this blog really doesn't have much to do with my illness and how I am coping with it. This blog is more a practice in what they call "free writing" in writing class.
So thank you for reading my rants, please leave a message, so I know that some one has read it. You put the comment where it says " no comment", if you hit that button you can leave a comment
Have a Fantastic weekend.
# soul searching