I recently returned from holidays in my hometown.
Instead of sickening feelings of regret and dismay, I was met with a great excitement.
Excitement to go to what I now consider home.
Perhaps it’s the new house I live in, or the job, or the fact I was missing my partner and dog.
But I do know this; I finally feel like I have my own home and family. And that is all I have ever wanted.
Monthly Archives: March 2015
I recently returned from holidays in my hometown.
Today is World Bipolar Day.
Six years ago, I was diagnosed with this disorder.
Six years ago, I thought my world was crumbling beneath me.
Six years ago, I gained the courage to get help.
Six years ago, I finally understood myself as a person.
Six years ago, I learnt many things about myself that I did could not comprehend before.
Six years ago – my life changed forever.
There is ups and there is downs.
They have shattered my life and forced my to rebuild it again.
They have changed who I am as a person, continually.
They have made me who I am today.
So let’s get to who I am today, on World Bipolar Day.
Today, I am strong.
Today, I am confident in my own skin.
Today, I am intelligent and funny.
Today, I am quirky and unique.
Today, I am a working citizen.
Today, I am loved.
Today, I am grateful.
Today, I am stable.
I never used to be these things. But my journey with Bipolar Disorder has made them come about – and stay.
And it was certain; the fact that she was an over emotional person.
But alas, that could not change how others behaved.
Everyone’s living their own lives.
They’ve no time for her.
She’s different to how she used to be and she doesn’t know if people care for it.
They’ve their own lives, like every adult.
But she is sensitive.
And the little things hurt.
The things you don’t notice you do.
They hurt her, part of her insides dies a little.
She feels deserted and broken up.
But that doesn’t matter.
Because she’s just the over emotional girl, and they’re just living their lives.
Hurt myself again today. And the worst part is there’s no one else to blame.
Cooking and eating used to be great passions of mine. I loved to spend hours in the kitchen, inventing recipes and taste testing them on myself and friends and family. I’d bake and decorate to a high standard. I’d love to go out for dinner or lunch and critique the food, as well as enjoy every bite of it. I loved everything about food. The flavours, the fun, the challenges, the eating.
But somewhere along the road, I stopped doing these things.
My appetite disappeared – basically. I felt no need to cook for myself. So I didn’t. I did not get the same joy that I had always gotten from cooking and eating and now it’s manifested into something deeper. Something I don’t understand and that I’m ashamed of. I rarely eat. When I do, it’s generally alright quality food, but it’s not nearly often enough to sustain an adult woman with health problems. It’s constantly brought up – that I don’t eat much. Everyone I eat with says something about it. And it makes me feel ashamed. I am starving myself and I don’t even realise I’m doing it. I just have no appetite. No need to eat. I don’t do this because of body issues; I love how I look. I’m not trying to maintain it because I just have good genes it seems. I never gain much weight and with little exercise I become toned. I hate feeling ashamed of myself for something I don’t understand and sometimes I wish people would just leave me alone, even though I know they care.
Tomorrow I see my psychologist and it will be brought up. Though I don’t know what will come of me asking about something I know nothing of.
A while ago, I started this blog.
I had no expectations for it. I simply just wanted to share my journey with mental illness with others.
Somewhere along the way, I began to gain followers (WordPress friends, I’d rather call them) and receive kind messages of support, prayers, and wishes for my well-being.
I did not expect this.
I have gained friends who I speak to outside of WordPress, and some on here who I love dearly.
Today, I reached 300 friends. I’m ecstatic that I can reach out to that many people, and that that many care.
What I’m trying to say is I’m thankful for each and every one of you. Thank you for reading my blog, for supporting me, for being there.
And let this be a lesson to those suffering; you are not alone, reach out.
Once upon a time, I was a social butterfly. I was a party girl. I went out three to four times a week and drank, took drugs and just generally partied as hard as I possibly could. I was popular, outgoing, and oh so manic. But of course, nobody knew that last bit.
When I had my major depressive episode, I changed. I stopped going out altogether. Stopped my drinking. Didn’t touch another drug again. I was less and less social by the month.
Soon, I found myself in a place I’d never thought I’d be – lonely and miserable. I wished that I could still be that party girl, but I knew that time was over for me.
In a way I’m glad I got my partying phase out of the way early. I don’t think my health could handle it now. Though I do tend to regret the fact that it was while my brain was still developing. That aside, I am happy it happened early. I see people in their partying phase at such later ages than I, and I think to myself, “I couldn’t imagine a bigger waste of my time.”
Sure, the occasional party is fun. But it’s not something I’d like to regularly do. I’m not that girl anymore. I’m now someone who strives to be their best and to be healthy. Not just a party girl.
Basically I’m tired of feeling sick and tired.
I’m over this. My whole life is a series of health issues. Each one, a devastating blow to my self esteem.
I am 22 years old and yet I have a myriad of health issues that literally cripple me at times.
Most recently, I have gotten Sciatica. I am in immense pain and have been ordered to rest. The problem is though, I don’t think it’s getting any better. My foot is still losing feeling – riddled with pins and needles at all time. My leg aches, as does my back.
I don’t know what to do.
My endometriosis is still active, it seems, which is quite bothersome due to the fact that I had a surgery for it less than six months ago.
My anxiety is rising – it makes work very difficult. Just the thought of going gives me great anxiety and when I’m there it becomes worse if I am not occupied at all times.
My agoraphobia is keeping me inside, I haven’t even gone for a walk alone in my new neighbourhood and I’ve been here since January.
I just don’t feel right. And I’m fucking sick of it.