#Bipolar2 #ADHD #PostpartumDepression
I'm trying to find the balance of who I was, who am now, and who I want to be. Walking along this bridge of life, holding tight to what I can. Holding tight to what feels stable, reliable, sturdy. Attempting to cross this new found bridge, attempting to take that next step forward, to discover a looming forest ahead. It feels frightening, because of the mysteries it holds. It feels exciting because of the possibilities.
I want to be there. I want to be traveling along that designated path on the way to who I’m meant to be. I feel stuck on this bridge. Making progress, taking steps forward. But moving slow. Too slow.
I try holding onto realities of who I am, in this moment. Wife, mother, friend. Holding tight to who I am as the bridge is shaken by new revelations of two new diagnoses. Holding tight to my husband as I try to find my footing again. Holding tight to my children as I figure out the next steps forward. Feeling focused and driven as I’m reminded of my reason. Figuring this out so that I can be what’s best for them and for our family. I take another step forward. I start medication. Hopeful, as the steps seem small and frustrating. I’m impatient as I try to figure out how I feel and how the meds make me feel. I want to jump ahead, skip to a better part of the bridge, move closer to the life I can see, the path through the forest. I’m so impatient, I want to run there.
Reality is knowing that I can’t. Reality is knowing that I have to take steps one at a time. Slow, careful, steady. As I make my way across this bridge of discovery, I glance back. I see how far I’ve come. I take a deep breath. It’s reassuring knowing that the small, steady steps are working. Slowly moving myself forward, across this damn bridge, toward the life I want. Toward the person, mother, wife, and friend I want to be.
Glancing back again. Seeing the life I’ve lived so far on the other side of the bridge. But, seeing it in a new light. As if this new diagnoses shines a spot light on everything from my past, making it possible to see things differently. Suddenly, things make more sense. Decisions I made, hardships I had, mistakes and problems I got myself into.
I breath as I look back. I force myself to turn around and really look backward. Really look at my past through this new lens. It’s painful. It’s hard. It’s uncomfortable. The tears start to fall. Wounds that scabbed over. Scratching at them. Looking at them bleed. Feeling the warn trickle as the tears continue to fall. It’s uncomfortable as I sit here with the pain and disappointment in myself. All the while, knowing that it’s necessary. Necessary to moving on, taking the next step forward.
I sit there, acknowledging the hurt. Letting the feelings wash over me. Is it a waterfall, a wave? I’m showered with emotions. Sitting here looking at my past. I breath. I take another deep breath. Another.
I tilt my face toward the sky as all these feelings and emotions continue to rush over me. I sit here. Allowing it all to happen. I sit here in the uncomfortable, in the pain, in the disappointment.
I sit here on this bridge, gazing at my past, gazing at the hurt and frustration. Feelings of frustration from the past, and frustration now, looking back on those times knowing it could have been different. I sit here, trying to decide if I’d change it? Would I? Or am I a better person having gone through these hard times? Don’t they say that everything in your past paints a picture of your future, that everything led you to where you’re meant to be? If I had known what I know now about myself, what would I have changed? What would be different?
Trying not to live in the land of what ifs, I shake my head. My gaze moves on, seeing new things to be rediscovered through this new light. I see a room, dark, long locked away and forgotten. Memories come of boxing everything in that room, turning out the light and locking it tight. Shoving a large chest in front of the door. In the chest, I put my new life as I build it brick by brick.
In this chest, I see my husband, my role as a wife and homemaker. I see our first apartment with the futon in the living room, the mismatched artwork and chipped dishes. My eyes land on the new job that helps establish a new world with a new personality, friendships and career. As I move about this new world, I remember continuing to fill my chest. This has become my protection from the locked door.
Everything feels new and exciting as I continue to build my own new world, building up the life I always dreamed of. But the chest isn’t heavy enough yet and the lock doesn’t hold. Old patterns and mistakes begin to leak through. I try another lock. I try filling my chest, my new life with more. A new house, new friends, new experiences, new things. Nothing ever seems to be enough.
Then my new role comes along. Motherhood. Everything I’ve always wanted is here. I try putting it in my chest with all my other treasures. But the lid won’t close. There’s now too much. This new role, this thing I’ve always wanted ever since I can remember, it’s nothing like I expected it to be. Every system I had in place, every brick I carefully placed, motherhood tore it all down. I find myself broken.
On the bridge looking back at myself now, I see that broken girl, sitting alone in the dark corner staring at her special chest. Seeing that broken girl get up and discover herself in motherhood. She started cleaning up. Putting things back together. Attempting to protect herself again, she begins taking things out of the chest. Things that no longer belong, things that can be replaced.
Soon, I see this version of myself find her footing again. I remember then. I remember finding myself again through motherhood. Putting everything I had into this new life. I remember being happy. I see myself being the happiest I’ve ever been. This, this is what I’ve always dreamed of. The family, the home, this life I’ve created. That’s mine. I made this and I am so proud of it.
There is, however, this constant missing piece. I see the light flicker from beneath the locked door. A reminder of what is missing, what my new life is lacking.
That’s when I see myself take a deep breath and decide, this is the moment. With my treasures carefully packed away inside my special chest, I stand up. I see myself move my special chest to the side. Another deep breath as I make the call, making the decision to go to therapy.
Therapy becomes the key I need to unlock the door to my past. Unlocking things that I had boxed up and shut away for such a long time. On the bridge, I’m turning on the light for that broken girl. We’re working together, her and I. My past and present self. Together we open the door and begin to dig through the boxes as we navigate through the long lost problems locked away in the dimly lit room. Digging through these boxes, pulling things out piece by piece, examining them, deciding what to keep and what to let go. Taking time to examine everything through this new found lens and with my new tools. Together we begin to sort through the messy room.
Another deep breath from the girl on the bridge, as I turn around and face the forest. Hope is there. Hope is what the future holds. For me, for my family. Working on myself is hard. It’s crossing this rickety rope bridge. It’s terrifying feeling as though one wrong step can send me hurdling down below. But looking up, hope is there. It’s knowing that I’m on my way. It’s knowing that I’ve already taken the hardest step in starting. I’m working on bridging the past to my future, trying to figure out what I can hold and bring with me as I make my way across. It’s hard, uncomfortable and scary. But, there’s hope. Hope for the future I can build for myself. Hope for the future I can build for my children. It all starts with one step forward.
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