Truth From A Skewed View

If you follow my blog at all, then you have probably noticed that the last few months I have been somewhat mia.  Often it's because, as I sit down to write, I don't really want to share where my thoughts are at.

That's why my new instagram has taken off. It is very easy to post a picture of something versus writing a post. This is a space I want to always be honest in and so, lately, rather than being disingenuous, I have just stayed away. Not that what I post on instagram isn't reality, it's just the part I want you to see.

If you follow my infertility struggle at all, you know that for the past year I have been weaning off of my medication in order to become pregnant.

To say it has been more rough than not would be an understatement. I have an amazing team surrounding me and we knew this was more of a probability than not (thanks Ted Wells for basically making that a dirty word to me now) but I think I shrugged it off. 

For almost 20 years I railed against my parents, doctors and then my husband when they tried to get me to take the medications. The side effects that plagued my body wreaked havoc in unimaginable ways and I was basically a shaking zombie. That all changed almost four years ago after a two week in patient stay at a psychiatric unit, my doctors found a mix of medication that not only worked, but left with with minimally  invasive side effects. 

The problem lies within the fact that none of them are safe to be on while pregnant or trying to become pregnant. at all. And so, with much thought and a team of doctors and a plan if things derailed...I slowly weaned off.

I have never been more sure of my need for medications to regulate my mental health. It has been dreadful. Mania and depression had just become second nature to me and being relatively mentally healthy for over three years has led to the realization of how good it can be versus what it is. 

 I am also no closer to a baby than I was last year at this point  prior to my last surgery for endometrioses and eventually I have to come to terms with whether or not enough is enough. I have repeatedly said I want to be a mother but not at a risk to myself or my child. If you are one of my friends of faith, I covet your prayers...not necessarily that I will become pregnant but that no matter what happens, I am able to come to terms with it.

I have often wondered when I would  be back to share where I was at in my journey because, after speaking in front of the legislative branch of NC regarding how far I had come with my illness and working closely with our  local NAMI chapter...admitting where I am now feels  like I am a failure and almost a fraud.

But this illness doesn't care how well I did for a time, it comes back to visit when visiting hours are closed and it doesn't even bother to knock.

The hardest part of my illness is when people try to help by asking "what's wrong? Why are you depressed? and I have no answer for them.

This leads to me only feeling worse about the situation and almost guilty.

My life is great. Honestly, my past was pretty traumatic and horrific, but now? Yes, the infertility weighs heavily, but quite honestly...that's not it. My husband has a great job. I love what I do. We have a nice home. We love our families ( for goodness sake people, I hit the in law jackpot) We travel all the time. Our friends are awesome. The Lord has been more than good to me.

Still,  the answer to what is wrong with me is quite simple.  I have depression.  Depression doesn't give a damn about how good my life is. It's job is simply to be a wrecking ball. 

 It's kind of an ass-hole like that.

The decision to share my where I am at now was chosen for me today when I clicked on ESPN late last night and read the story of Madison Holleron. A 19 year old student athlete at Penn University. She was a beautiful girl who appeared to have it all. before she jumped off the side of a parking garage. 


The first thing I saw when I pulled the story up was the title "split image" and then, as I read and realized her name was also Madison, I knew the time was right to share where I am with my illness.

I owe it to her memory and anyone else that may be struggling to not hide again just because it's tough. I've been honest and very transparent about my illness since the blog began. 

I will just say it's much easier to talk about your illness when you are doing really well and another level when you are really struggling. 

I want to be very clear that I am NOT Suicidal right now, but I know how easily that can happen for people and I want to parlay how much help there is available.  I may be in the depths of it now, but I am so aware of the symptoms and know to reach out for help if it gets that bad.

 I spent 20 years pretending my past never happened before I embraced being a voice for mental illness. I cannot walk away now.

Before I was 19, I had spent almost a year total (over 4 years and between 13 different hospitals) as a in patient at psychiatric facilities.  I am struggling mightily right now but not to the desperation Madison was that day, but it was a feeling I knew well. My story could have easily ended 21 years ago if any of my suicide attempt's had been successful.

I survived because of my faith, a husband who stayed when most would have left, my family who have fought the battle right along side me for 20 plus years, my friends...and I (unabashedly) say medication and therapy. They may not be the answer for everyone, but they worked for me.

This is where my story differs from most. Of all my many weeks and months as a patient in the units, I had multiple visitors a day. The majority never had a single visitor the whole of their stay. This is one of the few illnesses that people find it easier to walk away from than stay and fight for you.

and that breaks my heart.

Mental Illness is the hardest hurdle I have ever faced.

I was molested from the age of 3 to 5.

I was brutally raped at 14.

After the rape I was severely anorexic and then bulimic to the point I almost ruptured my esophageal lining.

I was embroiled in an abusive relationship at 19.

The past ten years I have dealt with miscarriages and infertility.

The struggle with my bipolar and depression have been a much steeper hill to overcome because while these incidents "happened" to me...

My illness is a part of me. The constant companion. A shadowy figure that never lets me from its grip.

The smiling face. The constant travel. The dinners and amazing food. They are the story of a good life, which I absolutely have and I am beyond grateful for it. 

It's only part of my story though.

When I capture a photo and share it...the view you see is skewed by the lens I choose.

May is Mental Health Awareness. If you or someone you know is struggling, there is help. There is a way. I do not promise it will be easy. I make no pledges that there is a "fix it" answer out there, but,  I do promise there are people who want you to succeed, who want to champion for you.

The Speech

I shared with you guys last week about my big speech I gave this past weekend. It went very well, despite my nerves being made up of anything but steel! The reaction I received was all positive and numerous people came up to me afterwards to share their stories or to thank me for sharing mine. 

Tears were shed more than once. The feeling of someone thanking you for putting into words what they have always wanted to express but had no opportunity to do so...so very humbling. 

I have been asked to speak at future events regarding mental health and sexual assault. I sincerely hope that I can continue to bring not only awareness to others, but a voice for those that don't really have one. 

The experience was rather eye opening and all in all it was fantastic. Unfortunately, at one point (after I was done speaking and in the audience) it became political and ugly. It lasted only a moment, but the bitter taste was left in my mouth. I have already written a letter to the representative and how fun that she is the one that represents our county. ugh. 

Anyways, we had 3 minutes and 30 seconds (or less! I am used to 10) to speak so I tried to do so succinctly and to the point. So, in case you were wondering what I had to say... Here it is!

Good Morning, Everyone. My name is Madison and I am a writer for numerous fertility and mental health publications.

  I'm diagnosed as having bipolar, severe depression, and ptsd. While these are my diagnosis, they in no way define me…the actual person.

My battle to be mentally healthy began 20 years ago, I was 15 and the previous year had been brutally sexually assaulted. While to everyone around me, I appeared the same. I was in no way the same. Prior to this, I was a vivacious teenager in honors classes, involved in multiple activities and always surrounded by friends. Afterwards, I began to withdraw. I became increasingly angry & developed an eating disorder.

The rape triggered repressed memories of being sexually abused as a child by the son of a babysitter....the flashbacks coming so frequently and nightmares haunting my sleep, I became petrified to close my eyes. 

At the end of my rope, and with my own mind becoming my worst enemy. I attempted suicide. I suffered a grand mal seizure & cardiac arrest. My parents were warned that my chance of survival was less than 50% and if I did, I would probably have severe brain trauma.  I ended up with frontal lobe brain damage and was released from the ICU ten days later

This is when my maze through the mind field of the mental health system began.

 From 15-19 I was hospitalized on 13 occasions. New doctor, new diagnosis... which meant new medications. at one point, released from a hospital prescribed to 14 separate ones. The side effects reeking such havoc, I rarely took them properly.

As time went on I attended college, got married and held down jobs. I rarely mentioned my illness based on the stigma I faced. Sadly enough, often times, the worst I faced was from those in the medical field.

Whenever I would see new doctors for something so simple as strep throat, the moment I would mention my past health problems, the tone of the discussion would immediately change. I was rarely taken seriously and the air reeked of their judgment. On one such visit, I purposely abstained from mentioning a medication which caused a severe interaction.

A doctor's office should be a safe haven.

After years of trying to handle my illness on my own, my facade started to crumble. I was barely able to perform simple day to day task.  This illness allows you to believe lies versus the truth and it once again led me to the conclusion suicide was an option. When death beckoned this time...before all logical thoughts had been erased. I sought help. 

I checked myself in to the hospital and instead of being transferred to the treatment facility in an ambulance, I was put in the back of a police car like I committed a crime.

This hospital stay started out as all the previous had, heavily drugged up, vomiting and barely coherent. Then, after 3 days, a new doctor took over. She took the time to listen to me and to push me in a direction of wellness and success. In addition to my bipolar and depression, I was diagnosed with PTSD. I began a 2 year program that was one of the most hellish, grueling and rewarding experiences of my life.

I survived this ordeal because of my family support and a husband that stood by me to see me well. They fought insurance when they tried to end my treatment prematurely. This time, with the right doctors, medication and treatment plan...I was left with the one thing that had always evaded me...HOPE! 

linking up with thursday thoughts

Oh, Hey...Congress

This weekend is bringing about one of those moments that only comes about once in a lifetime. I have talked on here quite a few times about my struggle with mental illness.  It has even played a small part of why I have gone a while without blogging lately.  Over the past few years, there have been a few times that I have been able to speak at events and to small groups, sharing the impact of mental illness on my life and its effect on not only me, but my family and friends. 

On Saturday... the group won't be so small (390) and the audience will include a rather prolific mix. I will be given the amazing opportunity to tell my story before an audience that can change lives. I will be speaking before state and national senators, congressman and other legislators. Whenever I spend too much time thinking of it, my heart races and I feel like I may vomit.  (Don't worry, I am sure my husband will be recording it, so, if it happens, youtube infamy shall be mine.)

via

I have never been more humbled to share my experiences, not because they are any more important than anyone else, but because, hopefully,my journey puts a real face to this illness for them. That I do a justice for everyone else in my circumstance who has never been given such a platform. 

There is much to be done in the mental health arena. From the part that insurance plays, to the stigma you face from so many sides, including those in the medical field...to the demons that live in your own mind, this illness must be taken head on. (pun almost not intended)

Wish me luck and I can't wait to share how it all panned out. And I hope to be back more frequently. I have missed reading and catching up on all your shenanigans. 

The Faces Are Everywhere

August the 11th is my date of infamy. It will probably always be my before and after. Each year has brought about different feelings.  This year, in particular, was a day for me to sit and reflect on.  For this time...August the 11th meant it has been 20 years since my mental health battle began to rage on.

It was 1994 and I was 15 years old.  I had been struggling for a while after having been brutally sexually assaulted the previous year. This had brought about flashbacks of being molested as a toddler. Eventually... death beckoned. 

 I answered the call. 

 The pills led to cardiac arrest and my death lasted but a few moments before I was shocked back to the here and now.

I shared this on my facebook yesterday, mentioning how I had been dealing with the ups and downs of my illness and how I am finally winning the battle.

"20 years ago on August 11th, 1994, my 20 year battle with mental health began. I tried to end my life by overdosing and was rushed to the hospital where I suffered cardiac arrest. My parents were warned that I may not make it through the night. They were told that if I did I may suffer severe brain damage and be in a vegetative state. Well, *spoiler alert*  I did survive and was left with only frontal lobe brain damage that sometimes causes seizures (and I will often lose train of thought mid sentence) I was diagnosed with bipolar. 

It took 17 years and 13 hospitalizations later, but, I was also diagnosed with ptsd from childhood traumas.

I rarely discuss this on here, but this is why I am so passionate about mental health. I am living, breathing proof that the right team of doctors, medications and, in my case, a healthy dose of Jesus, work. 

On here you are usually bombarded with my funny quips (maybe that is an opinion;) food pictures, cocktail recipes or our frequent travel. My pictures are usually of my smiling face, but that is oftentimes a facade. 

Everyone has a story...this just so happens to be mine.

You can click on the link here to see how I beat PTSD and am working every day to show bipolar who is boss. It is the most difficult, yet truthful, piece I have ever written. 

 Then, just two hours after I posted that on facebook and as I was watching Jeopardy, the news broke on the passing of Robin Williams and the belief that it was suicide.

It took me a few moments to wrap my head around what I was seeing and process the news. I am still not even sure that I actually have.  The sadness and desperation he must have felt, such a familiar foe.  The stark reminder that none of us are immune to this illness.

 The various people who have taken to commenting about how it isn't a disease , he chose to kill himself and he "had everything going for him and they don't feel sorry for him"

 I sat dumbfounded and sad at the ignorance. Surprised? Not so much.

Mental Illness (especially depression) doesn't care who you are. It cares nothing about your stature, your career, your mark on the world. It cares little about the perception that anyone may have of your life. It just doesn't give a damn.

It rears its ugly head whenever and wherever it feels like and sometimes it can be beat. Other times, it wages war and comes out on top. Nothing can stop it. 

I know this truth firsthand.  I had people who loved me, who surrounded me with help and support and my illness still didn't care. This illness is full of lies and takes away your ability to see the truth. 

Getting help for depression, or bipolar or anxiety or any form of mental illness does not make you weak. It simply means you have an illness and you are doing your best to combat it.

When someone ends their life, it is not because they are selfish. It is not because they are weak minded or the opposite of strong. It simply means that they lost their battle and the illness won out.

Just like cancer. Just like heart failure. Or kidney failure. Or car accident.  The illness simply couldn't be denied this time. When you "choose" suicide, it is not a logical choice. That is what this illness does, makes you completely illogical and unable to see a way out. Your mind leads you to believe you do not have a choice. 

This illness is devastating. Robin Williams death is devastating, but he is not the only face of mental illness. Look around the sea of people you are in everyday...and one of them (probably more than one) is wearing a mask that enables them to get through their day by pretending.

 The faces of mental illness are everywhere.

But with more and more people bringing awareness to this disease, with more people talking about it, surely we can lessen the stigma and more and more people will find a combination that works. 

We must do all we can to combat the fight against mental health.

If you are struggling and need help, please call someone, reach out to someone you trust and if you don't feel comfortable talking to someone you know, please call the suicide prevention hot line.

I know how simple it is to say that. and I know when you are desperate...how hard it is to decide to do that. but just in case...

My ordeal has taken me 20 years to get to a healthy place. There may be no miracle fix, but I promise you the road is worth it.

PTSD and me

* Today is August 11th. The best and worst date of my life. August 11th 1194, I overdosed and had cardiac arrest. Thus beginning my battle. August 11th 2011 I was once again suicidal and hospitilized for 10 days. And finally, one year ago today, August 11th 2013, I finished a two year PTSD treatment.

  I wrote this piece almost two years ago when I was in the midst of my struggles. If you are going through this now or plan to, please know that I am on the other side and things have never been better.

 I have started and stopped this post so many times. I guess it is because am not sure how to properly parlay my thoughts on it. It's probably also due to the fact that I am so immersed in it weekly that I don't want to particularly spend any more time thinking about it than I have to. But people keep asking and so I will try. But the past few days have been rough. If you are unfamiliar w/what I am talking about then you can check out these two posts my battle w/mental illness and my infertility struggles

After I wrote those I received over a numerous texts and emails. Some from friends and some from strangers. People kept referring to me as brave and strong. But really, I am not. I'm not that strong. My facade is. Yes. For the most part I am very good at putting that on. But inside I am weak and fearful. and this illness is ugly. Yes, I've suffered mightily but so have a lot of other people. and unfortunately  I have been the cause of their pain.

 For people I care deeply about.

 This illness conceals itself and comes out at the most inopportune time. I have come so far since I started this process, but oh...I have so much farther to go and I am not sure I have left what it takes to do it. I don't want to give up...but am I made of what it takes? I just don't know.

A majority of the emails were from people who knew me and were shocked. "but you are always happy!" or "I know people who have really bad bipolar, you seem normal"  So, I think these were meant complimentary but, for starters, and excuse me,  what in hades  is "normal?" Clue me in.  and secondly, I mean, I hope people don't meet me and think "Duham, this girl got her some problems" .  I do...but seriously, who wants to hang out w/someone who cries all the time, who brings their depression every where they go .I know I don't want an invite to a pity party so I don't hand them out to mine either.  So I hide it and tuck it away. Which is also the seed of my problem.

Anyways. PTSD treatment, to be honest, sucks a big one.  I want to be real. Today I hurt and I'm angry. It's taken forever for me to get angry and I am embracing it this week. I was diagnosed with ptsd on three points. having been sexually abused by the son of a babysitter, being brutally raped at 14 and then being in an abusive relationship that finally ended with a cigarette being put out on my left arm. The scar is the constant reminder. But for this therapy, we concentrate mainly on the abuse as a toddler. So throughout today, that will be what I am referencing. 

I was three. I had the most pale blonde hair and blue eyes and from every picture I have ever seen...I was always smiling this mischievous smile. and then, for almost every picture after for years...I wasn't. I scowled. 

He took my innocence. He took so many things from me, from my future that I can't properly grieve for them b/c I have no idea what the me who was...might ever have accomplished. He has made me incapable of accepting the love my husband offers. he has made me second guess everything. He set me up to be taken advantage of as a teenager b/c I never thought I deserved better. and made me feel so dirty. I don't know If I will ever be clean...

I am not going to delve into specific details...but I am going to be blunt. These things are ugly. It murdered my spirit and left my body as a an empty vessel who was a great actress for years. He told me to keep it a secret b/c "that's what big girls do" and from then on...I kept a secret like nobodies business and that almost destroyed my life. 

11 hospitalizations  Horrible places. Things you can't imagine. and never being fixed. years of different drugs trying to stabilize me. So many failures. I failed so many times. I gave up so many times. and now...at 34, I am on my way to being "fixed" but the road is so bumpy, full of pot holes that keep trying to throw me off course. but I am using four wheel drive this time.

Every week I have therapy. it entails talking about the traumas in depth. They are recorded  and every day I have to listen to them. Full immersion. The point behind it is so that it no longer serves a flashback but as memories, albeit horrific ones...but they won't stop you in your tracks any more. Supposedly. I'm not there yet.

 The nightmares that this has triggered are ones I can't explain. I wake up terrified and am sometimes so afraid to sleep for fear what will visit me. when the Penn State scandal happened...it wasn't just a terrible story. It completely turned my world upside down, for weeks it was that bastards face that found me in my dreams. I would throw up after seeing interviews. and finally my therapist and husband banned me from reading or watching anything to do with it. Yes...I was banned from ESPN for two weeks. if you know my love of sports...you know that was traumatic in and of itself;) 

It is often times strange listening to the sessions. I have tendencies to dissociate myself from the situation. I refuse to believe that little girl is me and this is actually not good. It's avoidance and it is the cornerstone of PTSD. It's how I survived the last 31 years. but this last week.. listening to it, I cried for the first time and I got angry. I embraced that little girl and I finally cried for her and in turn...myself. it's weird  sometimes when I listen, I learn new things...each week there are new details that emerge and sometimes when I am talking...my voice and mannerisms sound like a little girl. I am actually back in the moment. I have to tell the story four or five times each session...back to back to back.

and then each night, I have to listen to the recordings. and it is hell. But the possibility of being able to let this go, pushes me on. For what life could hold for me when I am done...is the hope that has evaded me for always. 

My goal is that one day  I can forgive him...b/c until I do, he will always have a hold of me and I can never really let go and live. I will just keep on existing.

So those are my Tuesdays. I hate them. but I value them so much. I am so grateful for them. I am so lucky and so blessed, as strange as that may sound. I have a husband who loves me, who fought for me on the days I couldn't muster the strength to fight for myself.  I have parents who have bent over backwards to see me get well. I have siblings and sis in laws who are in my corner. I have in laws that love me as if I was theirs.  So many people do not. If I was in any other situation...I'd never have survived.

I have questioned many times over the year what exactly God's plans are. I have often times not understood His ways. But I will tell you with absolutely zero doubt that I believe He has one, that He loves me immensely  And one day(hopefully soon, I mean...let's be real;) I will grasp the meaning. 

editors note. August 11th 2014. 
While being healed has come to mean something different than what I originally pictured, I am accepting being ok with what it looks like. When I used to look in the mirror, shame, disgust and fear always seemed to stare back.  Lately, though, more and more , a woman who forged through what scared her the most and that continued on when her mind beckoned her to quit...that is the face I spy most often when I catch a glimpse of myself.

There is still a place I am working to get to, I still sometimes struggle with the memories and the belief I have about myself in the aftermath, but that is the beautiful process of choosing life...the actual process. I am finally to a point where my life has become one worth living. 

I no longer just exist...I am alive and kicking. 

if you are struggling and looking for answers. If life is so much more than you bargained for, I cannot tell you enough that no matter how bad it is...please seek help and know that while it may not be easy, I promise you it will be worth it.

I drank the water...

and it still hasn't worked. I wish I had a dollar for every time I am hanging out with a group of ladies and there are numerous ones who are preggers and inevitably someone tells me "it's in the water here, drink some".  I apparently have some unfortunate immunity to it. As I stated in this previous post, I having been struggling with infertility for the past 7 and 1/2  years. That is a long a$$ time.  The point of today will be to explain how infertility and my bipolar have merged to be a major stressor for me.

There are the women who know early on they want to have babies, there are the girls who think that one day, probably, but no rush, there are the ladies who think they don't really want them and suddenly life is catching up, the clock is ticking and they're reevaluating and then...the ones who know being a mom isn't in their cards. I was the girl who never questioned I would be a mom, it would be my biggest job, the question was always when.

The struggles with my bipolar and the traumas I endured  led to a life of confusion, waking up day to day and wondering my purpose. I always knew that once I had a baby, my purpose would be so apparent. This added to my pain when it didn't happen so readily. They make it look so easy in the movies, as if  you look at each other and a baby grows there by osmosis. Not so much, although it did for my mother, she got pregnant even after she had her tubes tied..this is one thing we don't have in common. Rude.

Wiki and I have been married for over 9 years, I am almost 34 and I can tell you unequivocally that I never thought I'd be in this position  I am from the South and the country at that, people get married early here and have 3.5 kids by the time they are 25. I figured I'd be a little later, maybe wait till 26...but alas, I married me a Boston boy and well, there's that.

I have had surgery for endometriosis 3 times now and I have numerous cysts and fibroid tumors, this is not my body screaming it's ready to make a baby. I knew there would be difficulties, but not to this extent. I. was. wrong. We were at a wedding in Dec of 06, it was the first of my husbands high school friends to be married(3 1/2 yrs after us) the next couples were getting married in the next 8 months, there was a discussion as to what the next "couple milestone" amongst the friends would be...everyone agreed it would be Wiki and I having the first baby. It is 6 years later and we are the only couple left who doesn't have a baby, Jinx much?

I wish I could say I was above tears, that I hadn't cried over friends/families pregnancies. but I'm just not that strong and with that has come guilt,  guilt that I shed tears for the happiness of people that I love. Luckily I have always been able to keep it to myself and muster smiles and congrats for my friends. and I am incredibly happy for each of them, that is something I am actually good at, I have the ability to feel joy and excitement for the people I love while feeling pain for myself and what I'm missing.

This last year was one discovering myself, of getting healthy. I had to spend last year debating with God. I had to ask a lot of questions of myself and my faith, of what I believe and am willing to accept. in my life I have seen tragedies and experienced terrible things, but I have also seen joyous events and I have been a prayer warrior for people who needed it. I was the woman who could quote a verse for someone in need. and I had a conundrum, I had to wonder if God's plans for my life and mine were the same. what if having a baby wasn't what He wanted for me. Is my faith and everything I have proclaimed to believe my whole life, is it real? If it isn't in the cards for me, can I accept that. Right now, I'd like to say yes, but I'm not perfect. I truly hope God's plan for me involves a sweet baby(maybe 2) I mean, hello with Wiki's olive skin and black hair and my blue eyes, give it up...our kid is gorgeous already;)

there are those that say people with mental illness should never have kids. basically I am contemptuous towards those people. There are many things I have failed at, that I am not good at, and while I won't be perfect(ummm, who is?) and I know there are times it will be overwhelming, it's the one thing in my life I know I am meant to do, whether I have my own or am blessed to raise someone else's as mine.

Infertility is a struggle, miscarriages damage you, make you feel like something is wrong with you. For 8 years, each month I have been reminded I am a failure, that my body isn't cooperating. It is hard to explain. I don't know how to tell you how desperately I want to be somebody's "mommy" to wipe tears, to change diapers, to shake my head in exasperation when they're having a melt down. I long for it all...

the ache and yearning you have for someone who has yet to exist except in the depths of your heart, isn't something words can adequately express.

Perhaps, soon. Perhaps not. But I'm mentally getting to a place where I can accept it, but it would be disingenuous to say it's easy.

Tomorrow I'll discuss PTSD, then that's it. back to food and drinks and bargains.

I so cray cray...

ummm. in the literal sense people. and so today here's part of my story. This weekend is the 24th annual Walk For Hope to support the struggle with mental illness, which is a cause that's close to my heart er, head, if we're being specific;) I'm sitting here at my dining room table listening to music, candles burning all around and trying to ascertain how to properly parlay my jumbled thoughts to words in order to formulate cohesive sentiments. Here is where you wish me luck(or perhaps, as you're the one reading this, you throw some luck your way too) 

First off, prepare...this will be rather in depth and long and very personal(gulp) it may be jumbled and rambling at times, but that is how my mind works, I do, after all, have bipolar,  Welcome to my madness. I am more nervous than you can fathom, I am setting myself up for speculation and negative at that, in a time in my life that can be destructive...but if I can bring hope to one person or information to another...this will be worth it.

So, with trembling hands, here I go.

If you have ever met me you probably know(or possibly noticed) these things. I have a raging country accent(that gets worse when I'm tired or had a drink and I start saying things like "I suwannee") I love purses. and jackets. oh, and boots. and if you ever compliment me on them, I will delve into a ten minute spiel as to how they were "originally $200 or so and I got them for $28" yada yada, I read around 10-12 books a week, I watch sportscenter 3/4 times a day, I am a terrible driver(hello, I am a woman, so I'm faultless here) I quote the most random facts( I am often times blissfully unaware of how "factless" my quotes are), I snort when I laugh, I talk with my hands, I forget I tell a story and I tell it again(haha lots) I am easy to please, I love the South and my heart is in the country, but my free flowing spirit was meant for the city, I adore my nephews, My husband holds my heart, Jesus stole my soul, I am such a terrible singer that I lip sync in church, don't judge, Jesus knows the words of my heart!!! My main vice is I have a foul mouth, I turn my heat to 80' when my husband leaves the house(in the summer, yes, Aimers, we all know I'm weird) I have insane and ridiculous food allergies, and ummm, yeah...I don't eat green, leafy things. I am uncoordinated. I love compliments, giving and receiving. If I'm wrong, I'll say it. I think cowboy boots are rad, I am a mean dancer...like Shakira says, my hips don't lie. I was a born dancing in rthymatic motion(let's not count that time when I was uber fat and I "got low" and had to stay low cause I needed help to get back up. shhhh people. shhh) I often get loud when I get excited. I hate UNC so much that I intermittently don't like a blue sky(but I do love my Crompton) I will out brag you on bargains. don't try. If I hurt someone's feelings, I cry. unless, you messed w/my mamma or something. My Yankee husband has evened me out.I love to cook, and I hate to clean...

but this is about the things you may not know. I was sexually abused by the son of a babysitter for 2 years when I was 3, I broke my leg in 6th grade, had to be home schooled and got fat(not in the p.h.a.t. way, more so the l.a.r.d.) when I was 14 I was brutally sexually assaulted, in 1994 at age 15, my mind was spinning out of control, the turmoil of my heart making no sense and I took hundreds and hundreds of pills, my two younger brothers found my in a grand mal seizure, I was rushed to a hospital, I suffered cardiac arrest and congestive heart failure, I survived but was left w/frontal lobe epilepsy. I spent a week in intensive care and was then put in a hospital, you know the kind, "mental ward, crazy unit, institution  think girl interrupted  I was diagnosed with bipolar and severe depression...thus would begin my 18 year battle w/hospitals, over medications  different diagnosis and all out hell. I was anorexic, I spent the next three years in and out of hospitals(11 to be exact) I became involved in a very abusive relationship, I worked jobs and attended college and pulled off being "normal" for periods of time before the hell would begin to reign down again. I then became very ill b/c of my bulimia and was rushed from one hospital to another to treat what was considered the more "critical" illness at the time.  It was one of the most hellish experiences of my life, my mom had to get a court order to have me released against dr.;s orders. I called 911 from this place, at the time, not funny, now, my mother and I laugh about it. I had tried roughly 25 medicine combinations at this point, I had dr.'s saying I had one thing, then another saying I didn't...I was 19 and I decided that this was my burden in life and since I sucked at successfully killing myself(I tried 4 times) that I would pretend to be happy, I would be the girl I was supposed to be. 

I met my husband when I was 22. He was(and is) better than I deserve, even in my heartbreaks, my anger, my illness having such a hold over me, even when he loves me in a way I need but can't see at the time...the Lord gave him to me, I survived b/c of him and in spite of myself. He knew my ugly past(although not the true depths of how ugly, remember I wear a mighty fine mask) and he saw past my flaws and loved me anyways. And I thought I could beat my illness, I thought I had a hold of it. I didn't need medicine to be "normal" and oh, how wrong I was, it slowly but surely began to have me in the depths of it's grips again. and the thing with mental illness is that we're often the last to see, it hides in our inner workings...it is the enemy within. I pulled it off for a while, then infertility happened, and after a 7 year struggle w/endometriosis and fibroid tumors that led to a miscarriage, my ability to pretend had forsaken me. The hole in your heart when you so desperately yearn for a baby is indescribable, if someone has never encountered it for themselves, you won't get it. and it is enough to send a person who has never suffered from any form of mental illness to their knees. for me, I skipped my knees and went straight to the floor.and I wept to Jesus, over and over. at the time I thought he wasn't fulfilling Jeremiah 29:11, it wasn't till later I realized he was saving me from myself(you know, that whole, "he knows what he's doing thing")

Last year is when the out of control spiral of my life finally caught up, I was barely coherent, the simplest, most mundane tasks such as washing my hair was enough to leave me in a heap on the floor, bawling. I had no control over my thoughts  I never cleaned, I left my house unkempt; flip flops, yoga pants and stained t shirts. I began isolating myself from everyone. And a lot more that was far from the woman of character I believe myself to be. and I knew that if I didn't get help that I would try to end my life once again, b/c once your illness is full on, it's not a choice you make, your illness makes it for you, every thought you have is illogical. 

and so for 8 days, I went back to where I swore I would never go again.."the crazy pad" and it started off the same, so drugged up I fell asleep when my husband visited me, vomiting and shaking uncontrollably from the side effects. I remember thinking that was it, it would always be this way. There was no way out...then this strange thing happened, the dr.'s actually listened to me, they took me off the medicines that I reacted to in a negative manner and kept me there till I was stabilized. and then, the Dr.'s at Duke led to the one person who would show me that I could in fact shape my future and let go of my past, one Colleen Sloan. The 28 year old intern who would change my life, a little at a time. I was diagnosed w/PTSD from the traumas of my childhood and for the last 14 months I have been treated for that, alongside my bipolar. PTSD treatment is the inner depths of Hell, and later this week I will delve into the topic, I'll be more specific, but for right now, it's giving me on one thing that my entire life always evaded me...hope. So you see, Jer 29:11 was there the whole time, I just couldn't grasp it.

The next few days I will write entries that are more in depth about ptsd treatment, hospitalizations  and infertility. I will also write a few food blogs, as that is the purpose of my blog, this week is just an anomaly,  but one that is important to me...

I would love to hear your thoughts or comments, feel free to leave one or to email me if you have a more in depth sentiment. It would mean a lot. my email is thewhimsy1@gmail.com


and if you would consider giving to the walk this weekend, my friend Jeremy is walking again this year, last year he did it soon after I got out of the hospital and only later did I learn he walked in my honor...to date it is one of the most meaningful "gifts" anyone has given me. if you can't give a monetary gift, your thoughts are appreciated!  if you are able to give, here is the link to his donation page:walk for hope donation link

Feel free to forward this along to anyone who may want to read it...

and the next time you call somebody crazy, just remember, this is what it actually looks like...    
                                                         Pretty awesome, I know;) duh.

and just remember tomorrow is time time to make some whoopie!, that's right, whoopie pie Wednesday and it's pumpkin caramel.