Unpacking Bipolar

August 12, 2013

All summer long I've had little trips to anticipate. First it was the beach, then Las Vegas, NYC, the Pocono Mountains, and then the beach again. I'm so grateful to have had these opportunities spread across the summer months. Family and friends have been so generous and I'm so thankful. I've been given the chance to rest and recover (somewhat) from the worst spring of my life. These trips have helped distract me from the stresses and unknowns here at home. But the summer is coming to an end and I'm not ready yet.

Because, well, I'm not unpacked.

Sure, my suitcase is empty. I've put away all the cute little bottles of shampoo I've been collecting and my laundry has all been cleaned, but I'm not really unpacked. Not really.

See, my bipolar mind is still away, far away, still packed for the hustle and bustle and constant distraction of travel. It's still chock full of beach sand and slot machine receipts and big sunglasses. I've still got sundresses and swim suits and subway tickets shoved inside here. My bipolar mind is packed with a loaded Kindle and Candy Crush on my ipad. The alarm clock hasn't been set for weeks and I've got Facebook, not Outlook, opening when I log into my computer. I am not unpacked, not really.

And there's something else.

My mind hasn't room for the nonstop tears and the anxiety that come with worrying about my imprisoned son day in day out. Not to say I haven't been worried. Just scroll down through my posts...I've been thinking of him constantly. But that's just it. My suitcase had room for that worry when I was away on vacation-I had plenty of free mind space for that worry because I didn't have work stresses loaded in there too.

I think it's my bipolar mind that gives me the ability to compartmentalize these things. Vacation. Worry about son. Vacation. Stress about his sentence. Vacation. Agonize over the call from the attorney. You get the idea.

But the summer is winding down and I'm staring straight ahead at the beginnings of a new school year. I will soon have bright, eager, new faces staring at me ready to learn. The trouble is my mind is an overflowing suitcase of worry right now. And I can't unpack it. The zipper's stuck.

Can a Little Getaway Get You Far Enough?

July 16, 2013

I'm on vacation. I can sleep in. I can stay up late. I can spend my days with my toes in the sand. I've even eaten dessert two nights in a row and not felt guilty about it (well, not too guilty.) My younger son, my boyfriend and I are spending the week with my family at the beach. But even with great chic lit on my Kindle, my mind can't escape the realities of my life. 

Don't worry. I brought my medication: the high dose of anti-depressant and the new mood stabilizer that together work as my psychological cocktail to keep me in relative balance. Lately, my psychiatrist has been working overtime to keep me out of bed and off the ceiling. Being bipolar II, I know my meds are not optional no matter what paradise my suitcase and I land in. I've ventured off meds a few times in the past but never successfully. And I would never even think to try that with the life I'm living to date.

For those of you who do not know my story, my older son, 21, has bipolar disorder. In a two year downward spiral, experimenting with self-medication and ignoring his diagnosis, he ended up in prison with six felony charges. He's been incaracerated since March 28. And so have I. We all have to some degree. But as a mother who shares her son's illness, I am indeed in prison too.

Vacationing doesn't feel the same this summer. And I suppose it shouldn't. There is a guilt cloud floating over my head. How do I deserve to bask in the sun when my boy hasn't felt solar rays regularly for almost four months? How do I deserve to enjoy relaxing jogs along a shaded seaside trail when my son is only limited to every other day yard time within the perimeter of an electric fence? I can't shake the guilt. It haunts me.

But now, with so much time to think, I wonder, are we all a little guilty of feeling guilty when we experience pleasure? Do we all carry some weight of something that makes us feel unworthy of happiness? Unworthy of joy? Is it my bipolar mind that makes me feel this way? Or is it motherhood? Could it be both? I do not have bipolar friends to ask. Only those who read this blog. I would love to know if my feelings sound familiar to you.

In any case, this little getaway hasn't gotten me far enough away. It has only gotten me far enough to see that happiness remains out of reach, unattainable. With every moment of laughter, there is a dull weight in my gut reminding me that laughter isn't allowed. Joy is not an option. And freedom only exists in my dreams. When I awake, whether it's with sand between my toes or at home in my own bed, the nightmare of my reality is still there to greet me. This vacation doesn't get me far enough away.