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The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,100 times in 2014. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 3 trips to carry that many people.
Click here to see the complete report.
I want to put a harsh truth out there.
There isn’t anyone coming to save you. No one is going to come along and solve all your woes in life. No matter how hard you wish for that to happen, it’s not how mental illness works.
You have to be the one that takes the steps to getting the treatment you need. No one else can do it for you. Sure, they can sway you towards the decision of getting help – but ultimately, it’s up to you.
Getting help is scary. It’s facing your greatest fears and not knowing what the future holds. It’s learning things you didn’t really want to learn about yourself. It’s tough. But once you start and give it your all, you will notice change. So don’t wait around for someone to come and help you, because they ain’t comin’.
It’s all you, baby.
It’s time to fight again. I aim to be a person that is strong and positive. Although I have had a slight rough patch as of late, I think I get through it.
I always do. Radiating good vibes is an important part of my life as well as my recovery. It helps me to feel good, and passes it onto others as well. Which is another thing I care about greatly; the welfare and happiness of others. I get so caught up in my own sadness that I forget that others are going through the same thing, and even worse things than me. I know that illness isn’t a competition, it all counts, but I just need to remember that my life isn’t that bad.
So fight I shall. One bad day at a time. I will get through them with a smile on my face and peace within me.
I’m not quitting. I’ll never quit. This life is mine for the taking and I plan on making the absolute most of it – mental illness or not.
It’s fly or die.
Stay high, up in the sky, or crumble.
It’s the words I can’t speak, so I just mumble.
It’s a sweet habit turned addiction.
It’s quite clearly becoming my main affliction.
Days away spent crying, thinking about dying.
But when I’m with her I’m fucking flying.
And she thought of harming herself. Toyed with ideas of self destruction; that’s all she wanted, was to disappear. She scrawled out words of sadness and desperation on old pieces of paper, soaked in tears. The paper told tales of suicidal thoughts and ideations, of the deepest emotions that were hidden from everyone. She begged and she pleaded with all of herself, that someone would come to rescue her. But alas, there could be no knight in shining armour or heroine. It was her mind against her and the other way around, too. By daylight she knew it was time to do what she had been dreading for years. It was time to get some real help. She gathered all of her journal entries, old and new, and prepared to show them to someone for the first time. She went to an acute mental health care unit and saw a mental health nurse. She told her every little bit of her wretched life and in that moment, she felt relief. Like the whole world had been balancing on her shoulders and it had finally come off. The kind woman assured her that she would get her some help. It took weeks, hell, months, to get to an okay frame of mind. But she persisted. She did it for the people that appeared when she admitted she needed help, who were actually there all along. She fought her horrible demons, step by step.
And then one day she realised, she wasn’t that same girl anymore. She was different now. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to sleep all the time. She didn’t want to harm herself. She didn’t want to hurt anyone else.
For her, it was a breakdown that caused a mental health breakthrough.
The saddest part of Bipolar is that no matter how well you become, you can still have bad days.
I know that everyone, even without mental illness, has bad days but what I’m talking about is quite different to that.
I’m talking about the days where you wake up and can find no reason to get up. No matter how hard you search, all you want is to be asleep. And when you are awake all you think is awful. Negativity consumes your mind and tears tiny holes in your soul. Where you cry at anything and everything. And if you’re not crying, you’re fighting the urge. But you’ve got no energy to fight. So you just wallow in deep sadness, trying not to break. Where you read into every little thing and turn it against you. Everything is against you on a bad day. You don’t eat, you don’t take care of yourself. You think “fuck it, I’m not worth it” and become something you hate.
Having a bad day with Bipolar isn’t simple. It’s hard and brings you to places you never want to be. You can’t see happiness in tomorrow for you have been taken and beaten down by today.
I guess you just have to remember, not every day is going to be a bad day. And if there is one, sometimes it’s okay to just roll with it.
It’s okay not to be okay sometimes.
Suffering from mental illness such as Bipolar is a tough thing to have to deal with. It’s a long road to recovery and it’s easy to give up on. There are so many reasons that people give themselves, myself included, to not live their lives to it’s full potential. The main for me was the issue of not knowing how long it would take feel better. So a few times I stopped trying. I felt it was a lost cause because my progress was not immediately visible to me. But the last time I truly tried. Slowly, but surely, I tried. I fought my demons and went through treatment at a pace that was suitable for me. If I hadn’t have given up all those times before, I could have been happier for a lot more of my life.
So what I’m trying to say here is to not give up because you cannot see your progress. Keep going. Keep fighting and learning and doing. You can conquer anything with perseverance. You can get through this.
How I crave thee. To live in my own personal wonderland, carefree and among the stars.
How I crave thee. To run away with you, intense embraces and kisses that make me weak at the knees.
How I crave thee. To let loose totally, party the nights away and meet new people by the dozen.
How I crave thee. To pay back everything I ever owed, completely debt free and able to live life by my own terms.
So here I am, in a really great place in my life. My medication is going great, as well as my general mental well being. I have decided, along with my psychiatrist to reduce my Diazepam dosage in a second attempt to go off it.
I’ve always been an insomniac. I’ve lost count of the sleepless night I’ve spent, ripping at my hair and tossing and turning. I’ve dealt with fear of dreams. I’ve dealt with endless, deep thoughts and also those that meant absolutely nothing. I’ve dealt with nights where there is no reason not to be sleeping, it just doesn’t happen. I’ve always dealt with these things. Until I was medicated.
However, now that I’m in a good place I’d like to test the waters, so to speak, and see if I’m still that same insomniac.
So far I’ve dropped my dosage by 5mg. Next week I will drop it by another 5mg. I’m hoping I don’t run into any issues like I did last time I tried to taper off Diazepam. It wasn’t major problems, just lack of sleep leading to some mood problems with the Bipolar and all. Sleep’s important with Bipolar, so that’s why I’m closely and carefully going off my sleep medication.
I hope everyone has a great weekend and as for me, I’m off to bed! xx
Dear Panic Disorder,
I don’t know when precisely you came into my life. I have felt sickening anxiety ever since I was about 8 years old. Perhaps it was then. Maybe even after the breakdown. Whenever it was, you’ve done nothing but bad for me.
You’ve taken away a large part of my life; crippling me with anxiety and paranoia, causing me to become housebound and Agoraphobic.
I’m writing to tell you it’s officially over between us.
There is no room for you in my life anymore. I will not live in constant fear – I do not live in constant fear.
I thought I’d never escape you, thought it was pointless to try. I tried anyway. And guess what? It worked. The CBT. The mindfulness. The art therapy. The therapy in general. It fucking worked.
Today it was put to test and I excelled. I felt anxious for a moment but let that moment pass and carried on with what I was doing. Then there was no more.
So it’s time to say goodbye, I win, and fuck you.