It has been 4 1/2 years of madness. Something clicked, and I left my home and marriage of 25 years, and in a manic state, I changed every single thing I could.
At the time, I didn’t see it as mania. I thought I had a “little breakdown” because my first child left home. Now, I’m on day 2 of treatment for Bipolar-2. I’ve been on Xanax and antidepressants for the other 4 1/2 years. Nothing really “worked,” and every day has been an uphill climb.
I have been severely depressed for months now. I had to quit school, I can’t work, I don’t even leave my bed. Some days I cry. Some days I am completely apathetic. I find joy in nothing. I lie to my family about it. I do love my family and grandchildren. I just have no reason for existing, other than to not hurt my loved ones with my death.
No, I’m not suicidal. Yes, I wish things were different in my life. I wish I had a lifetime supply of money to live on, because I can’t draw anything to speak of from Social Security. I’m on a carousel, trying to enjoy the music and the ride, but knowing it will soon end. Only, I am not really enjoying the colors, sounds, and smiling faces around me. I fake a smile, but my eyes show honesty.
I hurt. My mind makes my body hurt. I sit here crying, typing, wondering why I ended up this way at 48 when all I ever did was try to make my husband and children happy and healthy.
My daddy had this evil disorder, too. Right before his suicide in 1987, he saw a counselor (once) who said he’d have to say, after one visit, that daddy likely had bipolar. Not only did the man make my childhood a nightmare, he left behind more a legacy of pain. He’s not really gone at all.
So, I type. Writing is my only outlet. The most effective method of expressing myself. It always has been – even as a child, an only child. God, a prevailing sense of loneliness has been my shadow for a very long time.
I live now until my savings runs out. When I run out of money, I run out of time.