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    Community Voices

    A bipolar and hypersexuality

    Has anyone struggled with hypersexuality associated with bipolar disorder? I was unaware of this symptom for many years until about 3 years ago at age 35. I was diagnosed at age 21 with bp and im currently 38. I always thought something like this would pertain to pornstars but after ending a recent 3 year relationship one of the issues my spouse felt was an issue was my constant desire for affection and sex with him. I thought he was being weird about not wanting to have sex with me. Looking back, i do realize that hypersexuality has ruin all of my potential and committed relationships, i thought thats really what men wanted and i felt thats all i could give anyway. It has been hard for me to control my sexual desires, and i have put myself in some risky situations due to it. Im so very ashamed about my past and recent behaviors, ive embarrassed myself and have ruined my reputation with men in my town. Ive been praying and seeking guidance from God and its working, but i just cant believe nd get over the fact ive done what ive done.

    How do i move on from my past with hypersexuality? How do i not let the shame embarrassments and guilt prevent me from moving forward?

    6 people are talking about this
    Community Voices


    The thing about suicide is that people don't want to deal with it. People don't want to u derstand being able to actually keep someonse safe... without removing the developmentally abled's rights.
    Knowing the problem and how to work thru it, to differentiate glorifying, vs dry morbid humor, vs those that are trying to be open enough to return to normalcy, vs the deadly. The ones that call you names, ignore it, cut you out of your family life or steal your child, those that allow the abuse of preventivtive medicine, simply because it's too much work, or they simply don't care, are the most deadly. Those that willingly ignore consistently the problem of cognitive wellness. How you grow, hormones, the surrounding environment, the interactions of others, and finally the ethics and moral compass of those that work with those whom ask for help. Is it a paycheck only to you? Is it a way to further the genocide? The things that play into hate crimes... all matter.
    Being where I'm at, it wasn't just trauma, it wasn't just responsibility, it was hormones as well. It was what led to one lice birth out of 5, and the loss of my uterus. While my emotion regulation hasn't been great, I wasn't known to be violent, and in all honesty I'm still not until it comes to children or someone e else to defend from abuse. What wasn't considered was the abandonment issues I gained early on, the super sensitivity, the over weight, the physical pain, the never good enough, then the depression of miscarriages and the compounded feeling of in adequacy over not doing what a woman should be able to do... My sickness of toxic relationships, the treatments, the therapy, and being made fun of, and the courage to be the one willing to continually work to change those things, while others selfishly take advantage of suicide prevention and turned it into an excuse to overwhelm the ones that do go there, is exhausting. Dealing with their willingness to forgo responsibility, and remembrance that we didn't raise ourselves, and trying to remind people that respect should always be there, it shouldn't have to be earned, to re-enforce the value of people and their importance in keeping things going so as they transition from home, to school, to work, with interpersonal relationships entering the scenario, life flows less stickily, requires effort on all fronts. Not just effort to devalue society and decency, because that isn't helping anything, but real non radicalized effort. Where all the reasons you won't, aren't the focus and the actual structure isn't compromised.

    Remembering, that color wasn't supposed to determine value, nor was opression of people supposed to be what society advocated for, because it doesn't back up what we have fought since we left England... or Africa, or the Eastern hemisphere. So why were we allowing it now? Why were we placing all the weight on the shoulders of those that didn't deserve to be hurt. That see society and harmony, and don't think the cruelty is necessary to get people involved for the betterment of tomorrow's future.
    The feeling of withdrawal and uselessness stem from the same old thought process of "we don't wanna". If I'm what society has to deal with, and I'm not the callous one nor the infrastructure breakdown, because in order to have quality, problems have to be honestly reported. Implementing ethics, is what prevents a babysitter from having to tell a parent their child is dead... work ethic, moral ethic, and the ways you value your life stake, and someone else's speaks volumes. Here the act of hit for hire speaks volumes about the way you are valued. So does the lack of true problem solving and lack of turmoil in the general public. The things we teach our children in schools, we negate by abusing each other and them.
    Suicide isn't on just the person that dies. Enough is enough

    2 people are talking about this
    Community Voices

    After a BPD meltdown

    I’m dealing with the after effects of a BPD meltdown. As is very usual with this disorder I was in a very toxic and very sick “relationship “ . My relationships follow this pattern , including my marriage . Very sick and twisted with me being used and emotionally messed with because the person realizes my insecurity and is able to mess with me for years sometimes until I “snap” and my BPD takes 10000% hold and I melt down and go almost psychotic and they don’t think it’s fun anymore .. Then the person realizes what is going on and leaves me saying I’m too crazy . I’m in the state of having melted down so badly and now I’m alone again. I know the relationship as sick and I’m safer now but I feel awful and used and tricked . Does any else feel like this. #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #Meltdown

    2 people are talking about this
    Community Voices

    Can't Be Happy With My Family

    Woke up again to another emotional flashback and having to walk around the house for a while to calm. Now back in bed going through my emotional and mental states. I came to the realization that I cannot be happy with my family.
    It's one of those realizations that you know on logical and intuitive levels but it takes time to really understand on a level of deep understanding.

    I can't be happy with my family. I love them. I can have good times with them. They drive me to bad mental and emotional states. Like normal relationships. But I cannot be happy with them.

    None of them have come to terms with their abuse and neglect at my parents hands. And they especially haven't come close to coming to terms with the abuse and neglect they enacted against me. And now that I'm understanding all this. Becoming my authentic self. Healing. Finding out what it means to be happy. Being abused and neglected since I was an infant, I never knew what happiness is. If I got close, I got scared and retreated from it. My relationship to them has changed.

    My family, still being as disunctional as they are. Not understanding their own conditions. Do not understand in the slightest where I am and what I am. I'm finding happiness in being myself. And they have no understanding of this. Lying here meditating on this, I've come to realize that I will never be happy with them. Because they can't be happy with me. They will never know the true me. I can never share my authentic self with them. They can never know or understand my truth.

    Unless they come to understand their truth. Understand who they really are. They are all still too afraid. And we continue to suffer at the hands of the insanity of humanity that clings to cycles of trauma, abuse and neglect. Thinking these are good, healthy and acceptable things.

    It makes me think of what Dr. Bessel Van De Kolk often cites regarding father daughter incest in a textbook he had when he first started out in the mental health field as a practioner. How it only happens to one in 10 million women. How it has no negative affects and can actually help women in dealing with life. Having had this in a textbook at any time for the field that is supposed to attend to the mental and emotional well being of people is a horrible indictment of the overall understanding of what is healthy and what is not in a society. Granted this is no longer the common perception in this field but it betrays the common understanding of popular understanding in the populace. The ignorance of what is healthy and what is not.

    I cannot foresee any of my family choosing to be healthy in this respect. And by so, they make it impossible for me to ever be truly happy around them. I will always love them. Respect them. Honor their being. But they will never be in a place where I will be able to be happy with them. Before I had to use adaptive strategies to overcome the anxiety, pain and suffering I felt around them to try to get along with them. Now I have to develope new strategies to overcome the pain, loss and grieving of never being who I am with them. Which means never being happy with them.

    Childhood trauma, abuse and neglect. The gifts that just seem to stop giving. Just when you think you may have beaten them back enough, you find new ways they steal the joy and happiness in life.

    Why should we change as a society? Why should we progress? It's obvious to me. But to so many people, it's the opposite. And they have no idea how destructive those beliefs truly are.

    #CPTSD #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #DissociativeIdentityDisorder

    8 people are talking about this
    Community Voices
    Noah @nsdf60

    Studying Philosophy to Help Mental Health With Schizoaffective Disorder

    In 2015, I received a scholarship to play football in college. I was majoring in kinesiology with a dream of becoming an exercise physiologist. For my first few weeks, I was doing really well in my classes — and even better on the football field. Things were going great! Until they weren’t. I remember sitting at the table during lunch break, when I heard a group of students joking and laughing. No biggie, right? Well, to me, it was. I was sure they were laughing at me. I had no reason to believe this, but I was sure of it regardless. I returned my tray to the cafeteria bar and left to head to my dorm. I had some more classes that day and then football practice. Everywhere I went, I had this unshakable feeling of being watched. By the end of the day, it was unbearable. I was laying in my bed, feeling exhausted, and trying to sleep when I heard a deep, booming laugh. I sat up in bed and looked around. No one was there. This happened a few times before I called my mom in distress. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but apparently it was “delusional” and made no sense. She came and picked me up the next day. I dropped my classes and withdrew from the school. Shortly after, I got a job — which I was only able to hold for a short time. Things quickly began to spiral out of control. I turned to drugs and alcohol in the hope that it would make me feel better. This only compounded the problem — to the point that I was ready to die. I knew I had to do something. I called my psychiatrist — who decided to put me in an intensive outpatient program. It was during this time that I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. Over the next few years, I tried to work several jobs — none of which worked out. I began to lose my sense of self-worth. I again turned to alcohol, and I drank heavily every day for a year. On May 13, 2020, though, I took my last drink. I began taking all of my medications as directed and going to therapy too. It was during this time that I became acquainted with the study of philosophy. I began to immerse myself in the philosophies of Siddhartha Gautama, Aristotle, Epicurus, and even Albert Camus. It became quickly apparent to me that I had been measuring my self-worth all wrong. My value is not in my ability to work but is instead intrinsic — at least according to some. I began to ask questions. “What is a good life?” “What makes life worth living?” “What creates and sustains true happiness?” While there are no cut-and-dry answers to these questions, I believe the search for those answers is inherently valuable. For instance, for me, a “good life” involves having money, a nice house, and a good job. Enter the philosophies of Siddhartha Gautama and Epicurus. They both assert that the separation from unnecessary desires is paramount in living a good life and that contentment is the key to attaining and maintaining true happiness. Wise words indeed — but much easier said than done. However, if we can work towards contentment with our situation, rather than struggling incessantly to obtain things that frankly don’t matter, we just may find ourselves in a lighter state of mind. That isn’t to say that we will no longer find ourselves in the vice grips of depression from time to time. If it were that simple, some of us may not need therapy or antidepressants. All I’m saying is that working towards contentment can be a worthwhile endeavor. For some people, this might be keeping a gratitude journal because it can help you appreciate the small things even on bad days. Let me ask another question — what really matters? This is a general question, I know, but bear with me. Let’s say, hypothetically, that nothing matters and that searching for meaning in a meaningless universe is futile. You might find this situation depressing, but if you dig deeper, you might find it liberating in a sense. If everything society deems important, like money, status, and popularity is in fact meaningless, then we may have no obligation to adhere to such standards. We can create our own meaning. Now, when I ask myself what really matters, my answer is relationships, self-love, self-care, treating everyone with dignity, and helping where I can. That is why I wrote this article — to share ideas that I hope will help someone. I don’t claim to be a brilliant philosopher, and I’m sure there are some logical flaws in this writing. After all, I am still a student of philosophy — and I always will be. My hope is that if you feel like philosophy could help you, you may take the plunge yourself. When you read philosophy, it is important to keep in mind that these writers are only people, and their philosophies are not law. You may agree or disagree or even form your own opinions on their thoughts. If you find a certain area of philosophy triggering, please stop studying. After all, some concepts and topics can be pretty uncomfortable. I have benefited greatly from studying philosophy, and if you want to read philosophy, I hope it helps you too.

    Community Voices

    I'm new here!

    Hi, my name is Angelstar89. I've been diagnosed with

    #MightyTogether #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #BipolarDisorder #Anxiety #Depression #PTSD #OCD #Grief #Migraine

    I'm currently in a relationship with a npd and I'm trying so hard to not clock out. I can't see it getting better and I can't see myself without him. He's my fp. It's constant hurt and manipulation. He's self centered and controlling. We have 4 boys together and I've been with him now for 10 years. I just wanted love and acceptance but all I seem to get is abuse and hate. There's literally nothing he hasn't done to me yet except kill me. I don't know what to do now. I'm so lost and scared.

    4 people are talking about this
    Community Voices

    I’m new here!

    Hi, my name is swatimusic98 I want to know about how to manage my relationship with my brother and help him in his treatment because he is recently diagnosed with bpd, depression and anxiety. And I want myself to he healthy and learn selflove

    4 people are talking about this
    Community Voices
    Natalie Bograd

    Finding Hope in Life as a 'Generation Disaster' Millennial During Tragic World Events

    I’m lying on the couch listening to the icy February rain slide down my living room window. Dizzy, nauseated, and experiencing severe migraine, I can’t concentrate on anything other than my excruciating pain. It feels like ice picks are digging behind my eye sockets and my entire head is being squeezed in an unrelenting vice grip. The only thoughts that penetrate the fog of illness are half-formed and terrifying. Maybe I should go to the emergency room. Will that make the migraine worse? Will they believe me, or will think I’m seeking drugs? Should I go alone or make my partner come with me? What if we both get COVID-19 at the hospital? Do I already have COVID-19? Am I dying? Would it be better if I died? Will this last forever? It’s definitely a tumor. I’m just being a baby. Should I call my mom? Take another pill? It’s definitely an inoperable brain tumor. I don’t want to die, but I’m not sure I want to live. I turn my head and for a split second, I focus on the view of our tiny Brooklyn backyard. Suddenly, I catch a flash of scarlet under the dripping trees. It’s a single cardinal with his unmistakable crimson crown and wings — seeking respite from the storm under our mulberry tree. I’d seen cardinals in our yard before — but only in summer. In 2020, during the height of pandemic isolation, I thought the cardinals were good omens. Messengers of hope from a benevolent universe, perhaps signs of better times ahead. My mom uses the phrase “a perfect storm” to describe those moments in life when multiple unexpected traumatic events occur in seemingly spontaneous succession. I don’t know how this term came to be. Perhaps it exists because we rarely see storms as bringing anything but chaos and pain. We can’t think of a storm as “perfect” in a good way. We rarely greet an oncoming storm with excitement or delight. We are primed for devastation, attuned to catastrophe. I recently read a piece in which one of my favorite contemporary writers, Anne Helen Petersen, interviewed Karla Vermeulen about her book, “Generation Disaster.” The book describes the unique collective trauma experienced by Americans born between 1989 and 2001. Our adolescence and young adulthood was punctuated by 9/11, mass shootings, increasingly terrifying reports about climate change, the war in Afghanistan, an economic recession that just about destroyed the economy, and deep, perpetual political strife and social upheaval. In other words, we grew up at the mouth of the volcano — with waves of molten lava lapping at our feet. I’ve seen this instability manifest in my own life in various ways. When my older sister was a freshman in high school, the news of a mass shooting at nearby Columbine High School rocked my hometown. Two years later, we watched the Twin Towers fall. Suddenly, we were all but strip-searched in order to board a plane. It became clear that most of us would never live as safe or as well as our parents did. And yet, in all my youthful naivete, I started my higher education career at a private college in Los Angeles with a price tag so shocking that the financial aid I received barely made a dent. I had undiagnosed attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and no idea that I wasn’t ready for college — let alone in a huge, unnavigable city far from my close-knit family. I arrived to find that — despite the astounding tuition — my freshman class was overenrolled, and several of the 1970s-era dorms were closed for remodeling. So my entire cohort was housed in forced triples — double rooms with an extra bed and desk squeezed into eight-foot by 10-foot rooms. To add insult to injury, the administration also decided to deliver us three sets of furniture — three desks, three impractically large, heavy dressers with granite tops, and the requisite mini-fridge. One of my first nights on campus, the air conditioning in our dorm broke. I had attended an all-girls high school and barely dated — I had never even gone beyond a peck on the lips with a boy. Suddenly, boys and girls were walking around half-naked and sleeping on the floor of the library next to total strangers. I was unprepared to make my own decisions about whether or not to attend class, what to eat, which romantic encounters would end in heartbreak. A few months into that first year, I started having severe panic attacks and experienced my first major depressive episode. My dad had to rescue me from Los Angeles, packing my things as I lay on the floor, convinced my racing heart and shortness of breath indicated some grave medical condition. On the plane home, I heard voices telling me I was going to die. Without my family’s quick response — finding me a therapist and getting me the treatment I needed — I’m fairly sure I would have. Six months later, after moving back home and attending community college, I was finally stable enough to start again at a public university 30 minutes from home. And yet, stability was not on the horizon. Though I graduated in four years, earned honors for my academics, held down a part-time job, and enjoyed a few friendships, I also struggled deeply with depression and anxiety that I now know was partially a result of my undiagnosed ADHD. I now recognize the impulsive behavior — experimenting with the wrong boys, drinking too much, dropping classes, lying to my parents — and the struggles with executive functioning that still affect me as an adult. There were fender benders, detonated friendships, roommates furious with my lack of cleanliness, drunken declarations of love to undeserving boys. But more difficult than all of this was the sense that I didn’t quite fit anywhere — that maybe I was irreversibly and fundamentally “broken.” Between graduating college with honors in 2011 and moving to New York in 2019, I had at least 11 jobs — including serving in Americorps, teaching middle school English, and bagging groceries at Whole Foods. I had a series of bad roommates and moved back in with my parents for the second and third times. I had complicated romantic relationships with men who were patently unsuited for me. I excelled in a master’s program in media studies but became bored and decided not to go for a doctorate, essentially cutting off a career path in academia. Just before I decided to move to New York and just after my ADHD diagnosis, I finally confessed to my parents that I had over $10,000 in credit card debt on top of my $70,000 in student loans. At age 29, after working without a break for almost a decade, I had no partner, no friends, no career, and no savings. I was — in the most literal sense — worthless. And yet, I plunged ahead like the cardinal, seeking shelter and a place to nest. I used the money my parents had set aside for my future wedding to pay off credit card debt, sold my car, and moved to Brooklyn with a part-time job, an offer to crash with a friend, and an incredibly risky belief that things would get better. They did and they have. I fell in love. I moved in with my boyfriend. I worked through some core issues in therapy. I secured a series of higher-paying jobs in my field. But then, COVID-19 hit. It was the perfect storm. Isolation, fear, the relentless drumbeat of capitalism undaunted. The reasons I moved to New York vanished overnight as restaurants shuttered, theaters went dark, and ambulances wailed. The pandemic stretched on for months. Months turned into years. Armed terrorists stormed our nation’s capital. States passed and courts affirmed more and more bills attacking abortion rights, voting rights, and the right to gender-affirming care. My partner and I had very few friends nearby, no family, and no “pandemic pod” with whom to weather the storm. We were an island unto ourselves — huddling together as the rain lashed at our windows and the waves crashed. We worked. We stared at screens. We drank. We missed family Christmases and baby showers. We stood in line for COVID-19 tests and vaccines and masks and groceries. We found pockets of joy and laughter and peace. The world opened again, then shuttered, then reopened again — a dizzying dance of changing guidelines and social expectations. I started having five migraines a month, then 10, then more. I had finally established myself in a life I loved — only to find out at sea once again. It’s not that no other generation in history has grown up during dark times. I appreciated the Apple TV series “Dickinson” — a fictionalized dramedy about the poet Emily Dickinson — for the way it gently pokes fun at how young people whine about living in “unprecedented times.” In one episode, Emily’s sister, Lavinia, whines, “The Civil War ruins everything!” Today, she would no doubt post her frustration as a snarky Instagram meme. But the outrage is the same. The systems that were meant to help us have failed, the promise of a good job and home ownership with a college degree have been rendered meaningless, and young people full of promise have been lost to racial violence, mass shootings, a pandemic, endless war, and environmental ruin. But as Vermeulen remarked in “Generation Disaster,” the point isn’t that no past generation has had it harder than millennials. The difference, perhaps, is that millennials have never seen the world as safe or believed on a deeper level that we’d be rewarded in the same way as our parents have been for pursuing the things they pursued — marriage, a stable career, higher education, home ownership, or parenting. Though I may be generationally primed for disaster — especially on a national or global scale — it’s always the personal catastrophes that take me by surprise. I’m someone who lives with ADHD, anxiety, depression, and chronic migraine. These are storms I know — biological forces with which I’m intimately familiar. Though they can be dormant for weeks or months, they’re never far from the horizon. And yet, they sometimes take me by surprise — leaving me breathless and gasping in the wreckage. This February, migraine was a storm I didn’t expect. The pain, the fear, the sense of residing in a space somewhere between life and death, between illness and health, completely cut off from the world. I eventually ended up in the emergency room after a night spent weeping in pain and asking my partner to tell me stories to distract me from the sense of impending doom — the certainty that my life was about to end. I wasn’t sure I minded. The ER doctors drew my blood, gave me various medications and fluids, and ran a series of tests. A scan of my brain came back clear. No tumor. I didn’t have COVID-19 either. It was “just migraine.” As the treatment started to work and the pain receded, I lay on my back with an IV in my arm, and I was overcome by a sudden sense of peace. I realized immediately and forcefully that this moment, this imperfect storm, would abate. I would live. I would hold my nephews’ small hands and stroke my dog’s fur. I would stand by the ocean and marvel at it. I would be a part of the world again — for as long as luck and grace decreed. But just as deeply as I knew I would again experience great love and joy, I also knew that sorrow, pain, and terror were not finished with me. The world was still broken. This moment of respite was the cardinal in the storm — a flash of crimson on a gray winter day. A little over a month later, I stood with my toes in the sand looking out at the ocean. I was visiting Sanibel Island, Florida with a dear friend and her family. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen: pristine beaches with white sand and teal waters, a wildlife refuge where we watched great blue herons and egrets soar over a bay where dolphins and manatees played. We kayaked through clusters of mangroves, combed the beach for seashells, and watched the sun set in blazes of orange and peach. But looming in the background was disaster. My friend’s grandfather was glued to the rental home’s television for hours each day — watching the coverage of the invasion of Ukraine. Just before we set out for a bike ride through the nature preserve where we’d see roseate spoonbills, sea turtles and an alligator, we watched Ukraine’s president, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, address Congress. He played a video that depicted daily life in Ukraine before and during the Russian invasion. Much like the American disasters he referenced in his speech — Pearl Harbor and 9/11 — the video showed ordinary days with blue skies and laughing children turned to horrific blood and rubble. It was strange for me to be in such a beautiful place while other parts of the world were burning. Or maybe it wasn’t strange at all. And so I thought again of the cardinal. The one I saw when I was sick was different. It was a quick flash of light in the darkness — transient and ephemeral. It represented the single hour or week or month or year that happens to be free from pain, fear, and grief. It was the brief calm after the storm — not its permanent cessation. As part of “Generation Disaster,” I realized that these moments between storms were the times when joy and peace can enter a life and take root. After all, every life has two surfaces: one shiny and unbroken, the other troubled and crumbling. Generation Disaster. Generation Resilience. The eye of the storm — and its apex. I wanted to tell the sick, exhausted, broken version of myself staring out at the rain and hoping to die to hang on just a little longer. Things don’t always get better, but they always, always change. And with change comes promise. The cardinal was a reminder that we don’t stay alive because we’re guaranteed endless sunny days. We stay alive — we choose to keep living — because if we don’t, we may miss those moments when our very cells sing with gratitude for every breath, every kiss, every heartbeat. We often endure because we hope that when the storm returns — and it will return — we will be wiser, stronger, and better equipped. We may hope we’ll have deeper roots and sturdier branches. We may hope that when the final storm comes for us, we can say that we did the best we could — despite the gale-force winds and raging waters. We hope to say that in the storms, we were broken and alive and perfect.