Bipolar 2 Disorder

#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.

#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.

#ADHD #Bipolar2

I yearn for consistency. When I have it, I treasure it. “Isn’t this great?!” I say to myself as I get everything done on my mental checklist. I smile to myself, trying to hold onto that feeling of accomplishment. “This is going to be me from here on out.” I tell myself, so confidently.

How quickly that confidence turns to a desperate hopefulness. “We’ve been here so many times before.” A quiet voice says. The excitement as we start something new. The novelty of new checklists, new organization bins, a new routine, a new app. Surely, this will be the one thing I need, this will be the thing that fixes everything. That novelty quickly fades away, leaving me clinging to those lost feelings of accomplishment.

I desperately want to be that person. The one who is able to jump out of bed in the morning. The woman who is able to put herself together, putting on makeup, doing her hair, wearing ‘actual’ clothes. I’m begging myself to be that mom who runs downstairs to make pancakes for her kids for breakfast before rushing them to the bus stop.

Again, I cling to the idea of starting a new routine and holding it. No matter how hard I try, it seems to always slip through my fingers. I never used to understand that. How could I be so enthusiastic about an idea and let it fade a few days, weeks later? Why does it always happen? Why did I never see the pattern? I never thought of myself as broken or wrong, I just knew that this was not one of my strong suites. I let the thought go to the side for so long because there were always so many other things that I was good at.

I know this about myself, that I’m unable to stay consistent with ideas and routines, and yet I forget that fact the moment inspiration hits. I forget all about the failed attempts, the half finished projects sitting in my closet, and I find myself jumping in cannon ball style. “This time will be different!” I tell myself and those around me, as I begin to swim, swiftly through this new routine. “See? Look how well I’m doing!” I’m in it now, swimming head down, focused on the task at hand, working hard to reach the finish line. Then, I pause, needing to stop and take a breath. I look around and I’m suddenly in the deep end. Tired, exhausted, and struggling. I give up and beg for help. The begging is never gentle. It’s desperate and horse and angry. It lashes out at the offer of help that comes. Slowly, the acceptance happens, and we make our way to a safer zone. Quiet, tired, and calm now. Until, the next great idea and the urge to cannon ball comes along.

I don’t want to live like this. I’d give anything for consistency. I’d give anything to be that pancake mom. To get an idea, a thought, hold onto it and finish it to completion. It’s not fair. I’m so frustrated with myself and all my failed attempts. I try so hard and put so much effort into trying to be consistent. So much wasted energy, when it seems so easy for other people. I know now, that this is just the way my brain works. That there is nothing wrong with me and so many others deal with the same issues. The frustration is there nonetheless. I’m angry and exasperated. With myself, with my brain, with everything. It’s not fair.

I’m not sure what is worse. The lack of consistency, or the constant desperate hope every time I find myself sticking with something. For now, I’m trying to take it day by day and give myself grace. Trying what they say should work, slow and steady goals. Breaking tasks down piece by piece. Trying to work with this frustrating part of myself, with my brain, instead of against it. This is still exhausting, but, here we go. Cheers to day three.

#ADHD #Bipolar2

I yearn for consistency. When I have it, I treasure it. “Isn’t this great?!” I say to myself as I get everything done on my mental checklist. I smile to myself, trying to hold onto that feeling of accomplishment. “This is going to be me from here on out.” I tell myself, so confidently.

How quickly that confidence turns to a desperate hopefulness. “We’ve been here so many times before.” A quiet voice says. The excitement as we start something new. The novelty of new checklists, new organization bins, a new routine, a new app. Surely, this will be the one thing I need, this will be the thing that fixes everything. That novelty quickly fades away, leaving me clinging to those lost feelings of accomplishment.

I desperately want to be that person. The one who is able to jump out of bed in the morning. The woman who is able to put herself together, putting on makeup, doing her hair, wearing ‘actual’ clothes. I’m begging myself to be that mom who runs downstairs to make pancakes for her kids for breakfast before rushing them to the bus stop.

Again, I cling to the idea of starting a new routine and holding it. No matter how hard I try, it seems to always slip through my fingers. I never used to understand that. How could I be so enthusiastic about an idea and let it fade a few days, weeks later? Why does it always happen? Why did I never see the pattern? I never thought of myself as broken or wrong, I just knew that this was not one of my strong suites. I let the thought go to the side for so long because there were always so many other things that I was good at.

I know this about myself, that I’m unable to stay consistent with ideas and routines, and yet I forget that fact the moment inspiration hits. I forget all about the failed attempts, the half finished projects sitting in my closet, and I find myself jumping in cannon ball style. “This time will be different!” I tell myself and those around me, as I begin to swim, swiftly through this new routine. “See? Look how well I’m doing!” I’m in it now, swimming head down, focused on the task at hand, working hard to reach the finish line. Then, I pause, needing to stop and take a breath. I look around and I’m suddenly in the deep end. Tired, exhausted, and struggling. I give up and beg for help. The begging is never gentle. It’s desperate and horse and angry. It lashes out at the offer of help that comes. Slowly, the acceptance happens, and we make our way to a safer zone. Quiet, tired, and calm now. Until, the next great idea and the urge to cannon ball comes along.

I don’t want to live like this. I’d give anything for consistency. I’d give anything to be that pancake mom. To get an idea, a thought, hold onto it and finish it to completion. It’s not fair. I’m so frustrated with myself and all my failed attempts. I try so hard and put so much effort into trying to be consistent. So much wasted energy, when it seems so easy for other people. I know now, that this is just the way my brain works. That there is nothing wrong with me and so many others deal with the same issues. The frustration is there nonetheless. I’m angry and exasperated. With myself, with my brain, with everything. It’s not fair.

I’m not sure what is worse. The lack of consistency, or the constant desperate hope every time I find myself sticking with something. For now, I’m trying to take it day by day and give myself grace. Trying what they say should work, slow and steady goals. Breaking tasks down piece by piece. Trying to work with this frustrating part of myself, with my brain, instead of against it. This is still exhausting, but, here we go. Cheers to day three.

Hi, my name is Cranbrook3536. I'm here because my primary diagnosis is Borderline Personality Disorder. Previous diagnosis was Bipolar II. Today, I am struggling with a high level of anxiety. My eating disorder is Anorexia, Restrictive Type. To keep it simple, I have put my family and what few friends I once had through so much that I've now alienated them, burned them out. Also, I am struggling to see a sense of purpose beyond my diagnoses. For seven years, I volunteered at the City Library, but between the pandemic and an injury to my left shoulder, I have become ineligible to return. When I tried to go back to a clothing ministry, I fell in the car park as I was leaving. Also, that brought back bad memories of earlier in life, when the only job I could find was to hang garments in a sheltered workshop, earning 1930s wages.

#MightyTogether #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #Anxiety #EatingDisorder

So. It’s been some time since I visited. I have been experiencing increased anxiety and stress prior to leaving for work. So much, that it makes me physically ill (because I have been ruminating all night about how my day will go). I realize how unhealthy this is and signed up for our local partial hospitalization program for two weeks. I am now in week 2 and will be discharged from program Friday. Even though I am in therapy every other week, I did not realize how debilitating it was getting for me to even function at work. The PHP has been a great reminder of CBT and coping skills. A few I feel confident to utilize when I am suffering a mental crisis. I’m thankful I participated in the program, for work related reasons. I work in healthcare, but don’t always take care of myself as I should. As we direct our patients.

I have also been speaking to my therapists regarding my bipolar II rapid cycling diagnosis. I believe when I was diagnosed, I met the criteria. Fast forward 20 years later, I’m not so sure I fit that criteria as my manic episodes are more “fleeing moments,” and very short lived because I am cognizant when I feel I am “starting to slip.” I am more creature of habit, routine and when either is thrown off balance, it is difficult for me to adjust. I have a couple OCD tendencies, as well. And, a different personality. It takes me a very long time to trust someone. I more observe than participate, at times. Start to disassociate when I am under an extreme amount of stress. Sigh. I don’t know what that labels me, but I don’t believe it is bipolar II.

Good to be here with likeminded people who might have insight. I welcome any and all! Thank you for reading. #MightyTogether #Depression #Anxiety #workrelatedstress #PTSD #Bipolar2

So. It’s been some time since I visited. I have been experiencing increased anxiety and stress prior to leaving for work. So much, that it makes me physically ill (because I have been ruminating all night about how my day will go). I realize how unhealthy this is and signed up for our local partial hospitalization program for two weeks. I am now in week 2 and will be discharged from program Friday. Even though I am in therapy every other week, I did not realize how debilitating it was getting for me to even function at work. The PHP has been a great reminder of CBT and coping skills. A few I feel confident to utilize when I am suffering a mental crisis. I’m thankful I participated in the program, for work related reasons. I work in healthcare, but don’t always take care of myself as I should. As we direct our patients.

I have also been speaking to my therapists regarding my bipolar II rapid cycling diagnosis. I believe when I was diagnosed, I met the criteria. Fast forward 20 years later, I’m not so sure I fit that criteria as my manic episodes are more “fleeing moments,” and very short lived because I am cognizant when I feel I am “starting to slip.” I am more creature of habit, routine and when either is thrown off balance, it is difficult for me to adjust. I have a couple OCD tendencies, as well. And, a different personality. It takes me a very long time to trust someone. I more observe than participate, at times. Start to disassociate when I am under an extreme amount of stress. Sigh. I don’t know what that labels me, but I don’t believe it is bipolar II.

Good to be here with likeminded people who might have insight. I welcome any and all! Thank you for reading. #MightyTogether #Depression #Anxiety #workrelatedstress #PTSD #Bipolar2

Sometimes I wonder if the pain ever subsides. I was diagnosed with BPD about 10 years ago, Bipolar II 5 years ago and GAD 11 years ago.

Is not like I’m not getting better. I am. I am a lot better than even 6 years ago. When I found this psychiatrist, it was like a complete 180°. I went from three hospitalizations a year to one. I am aiming for 0 next year. The self-harm has significantly gone down. I was self-harm free for almost 3 years. I had a relapse earlier this year but have been self-harm free for 6 months coming up in 6 days now. I am so glad I’m working with her, but the thing is that this doesn’t just simply disappear.

The funny thing is that I was conducting some research about whether or not BPD ever goes away. Some reliable sources like Cleveland Clinic, Johns Hopkins, and Harvard hold to the traditional view that it’s a treatable and manageable lifelong condition. Other sources, reliable as well, say that it’s treatable, not curable, but a remitting disorder.

I don’t know how I feel about any of that. I wish I never had BPD in the first place, but since I have it and will deal with symptoms to some degree always (whether I’m above or below diagnostic threshold), I find it dismissive to say that BPD remits, or that “you no longer have it.” I feel like if I deal with symptoms and still struggle to some degree, then no one should take away the label that explained and validated my experience since I was a young teen. Does this happen to anyone?

I talked to my therapist about it. It is true that I identify with the disorder so much that it’s almost like I let it run my entire life. I don’t want that and I don’t want to be the BPD girl. That’s for sure. My therapist asked me questions that I couldn’t really answer, like what are the benefits of keeping the label. I couldn’t properly explain where I was coming from but since we talked and we tried to separate me from the disorder, I’ve come to realize that I’m much bigger than BPD symptoms. Yes, I might struggle, but that doesn’t mean I can’t build a life worth living.

Something that drove me to realize this was seeing a young man on Instagram. He had three fingers on his right hand and one on his left, yet he was playing piano. No excuses. I play piano. It’s hard to play with 10 fingers, so I can only imagine how hard it is to do it with only 4. So I thought, if he is not letting his disability hold him back from doing the things he likes and wants to do, why should I let my disorder dictate what I can or can’t do?

I want to continue being myself. I am a highly sensitive individual, like most, if not all, people with BPD. Being highly sensitive can be such a powerful quality. I just want to be me whether the label stays or goes.

Please share your experiences with this topic, please.

Hi, my name is AdmirableClam6209. I'm looking for info on Bipolar 2.

#MightyTogether