M. B. Manheimm

@mo-shea | contributor
M.B. is a graduate student with a complicated Irish name, so she goes by a less complicated Irish name. She aspires to be a writer as a career. In her health journey she battles lupus and fibromyalgia. She counters these with the power of love, baked goods, songwriting, and the diadem of Ravenclaw, or her real past times. You can find her at spoonielifestyle.com, where she writes with the goal to empower those with disabilities with avenues to explore their identities, thus giving them the power to live a life that's theirs to the fullest, in its own way.

When 'Toxic' Behaviors Are a Cry for Help When You're Suicidal

Quite often, when people die by suicide, a dozen or so people come out of the woodwork claiming, “if they had only said something.” Or, “if they had just talked to me.” If they looked back, they would probably see that person withdrawing from life, always saying no to invites or not being actively involved when they were part of something. Perhaps they never had anything positive to say or always drank too much and embarrassed themselves. These are now toxic behaviors, and to protect your vibe, you are encouraged to cut these people out of your life without taking a moment to think perhaps there is something going on behind the curtain. I see people now, almost bragging about removing toxic people from their lives and having no regrets, and it always leaves me cold because my toxicity was my cry for help. For the majority of my life, I had lived in such a quiet, socially acceptable way, I had never really done anything that would stick in a person’s mind, good or bad. I was very much a “fits-in-and-doesn’t-stand-out” human being and had convinced myself I was happy to be so in all areas of my life. Nothing I did would ever disturb anyone’s peace or their vibes. When this changed, I was 32. I was working as an assistant in a law firm, an active part of “Match.com” meeting, dating, forming relationships and social enough to pass for an outgoing, well-rounded person. For the next 18 months, I took part in a whirlwind of pain, confusion, desperation and need that burned my entire life to the ground. And by the end of it, every single person in my life who was not a member of my family had abandoned me. These days, many people would describe leaving someone in this situation as “protecting their peace.” But is protecting your peace effectively destroying someone else’s? Many of my actions and behaviors during this period would be described as “toxic” and people often feel justified in removing such people and such things from their life. But then, in the same breath (or Insta post) they encourage people to speak out about their mental health issues. During this time, I did not have the ability to speak out about what was happening to me. It seemed to have come to pass overnight and I didn’t understand anything. I was floundering and desperate and I didn’t have a clue of what to do to help myself. Every action I took moved me further away from the shore and I was fast becoming exhausted. I did not have control and it felt as though I could do nothing but careen down the hill to the precipice waiting at the bottom. My toxicity was my cry for help. I did not want to be the unstable, volatile, rudderless person I had become, but I didn’t have the ability to find a way to even begin to help myself and my coping mechanisms were as destructive as my illness. Two boyfriends had dumped me, both blocked me, one had me arrested for harassment as I called over 70 times in one day (all these calls were unanswered). Friends, colleagues and acquaintances blocked my number, my email address, removed me from their social media. My bosses at the time accidentally copied me into an email discussing how to get rid of me and made fun of me and my situation. One bad night when I ended up temporarily sectioned for possibly the fourth time, I sent a picture of my bandaged and stitched wrists to a co-worker who I had considered a good friend. Her response was to tell my boss, who phoned my parents asking them to tell me not to contact her again. I understand my behavior would have been distressing to others. However, a few months ago, I had been sitting in the office with these people, laughing, working, drinking tea. I called my ex-boyfriend 70 times that day because the day before we had talked about moving in together. And now I was attempting suicide, drinking at 6 a.m., being sectioned by the police and generally imploding. And none of this seemed to hit anyone as what it was, a cry for help from a desperately ill woman. In abandoning me, my former friends, lovers and colleagues were able to prevent themselves from having to deal with a potentially difficult situation. For me, they destroyed any small chance I had of coming out of my crisis with anything intact and at least a shred of dignity. But I know if I had died by suicide, my funeral would have been well-attended, with many people claiming, “if only they had known how bad things had become.” Luckily for me, I made it through this time, despite my best efforts and have now received a diagnosis which has led to me understanding myself in a way I never thought possible. I don’t think I will ever be able to say breaking down was the best thing to ever happen to me, but I can certainly see now something wasn’t right for a long time and in ignoring this, I led to my own downfall. I am stronger, wiser and more open now than I have ever been. There are too many souls out there who are not as lucky as I am and as I see the rise of the toxic label, I fear there will be too many more. As compassion dies in our society, I think more people will find themselves on the edge and alone and this is a terrifying place to be. There is a reason they say during the worst times of your life, you learn who your friends are. I was unfortunate enough to find out unless the sun was shining, I had none. Please don’t let your friends find out the same.

M. B. Manheimm

Choosing a Disability-Accessible Wedding Venue

While planning my two weddings (during one engagement) I learned a lot about my accessibility needs as I grew to need a cane and accept my new illness. I interviewed other couples who shared my experiences. We all shared the feeling of misunderstanding. The following is an excerpt of a personal story of my experience finding a venue as a spoonie bride: I planned two weddings, and therefore had two venues. Both were reception and ceremony-ready. In this book, I’ve already talked about my parents’ Victorian fairytale, which was my second venue. My first venue was a children’s camp a family friend of ours managed. Multiple weddings had been thrown there. Most weddings I had ever been to took place at the camp. It was beautiful: picturesque with waterfalls, cliffs and green rolling hills. I knew it was what my husband and I could afford and that he would love it. We had a down payment of $60 for 24 hours and a special of $600 for the discounted venue. It was typically $1000. We received this discount because of the 15-year-long friendship I had with the camp manager’s family. My husband, a botanist and avid outdoorsman, loved it. Not to mention on the highest cliff in the camp stood three white crosses overlooking the creek we chose our ceremony site to be next to. But with my illness, I was transforming. The girl who spent hours outside on the trail after work was no longer rugged and mucky. As much as I could appreciate plants and animals, I couldn’t drive all the way to the camp, cross a bridge by foot twice, and have a wedding. Besides, feral hogs had previously torn up the ceremony site, leaving grown-over holes in the ground, and I was wearing kitten heels. What if I caught my foot and fell? Needless to say, the camp couldn’t accommodate me and it wasn’t “me.” It was beautiful, but it didn’t suit my vibe. I had booked the camp before my mobility issues appeared. No one can predict the future, and I have the more important ring on my finger anyway. This is to say, take heart in your wedding planning – no matter what unforeseen circumstances arise, know that you are loved. You deserve that love, and you deserve the best venue. My book on accessible wedding planning, “Wedding Planning for Spoonies,” is on preorder today and launches May 1. Find it here on Amazon.

M. B. Manheimm

A Comfortable Clothing Guide for Fibromyalgia Fashionistas

If you’re anything like me, not long after you were diagnosed with fibromyalgia, you searched for answers about everything from diet to treatment, to bras to footwear. You soon discovered that your body was ultra-sensitive to fabrics and you’ve probably ditched a bra by this point. I’m here to share some Holy Grail products of mine that I’ve found work like a charm. The products below are enough to give you an entire wardrobe of comfort – I even included a bra! All of the items included come in multiple colors and patterns, so you can order multiple and mix and match for instant Spoonie Style, my Fibromyalgia Fashionistas. 1. Old Navy Jersey Knit Swing Dress for Women This essential T-Shirt dress comes in 10 different patterns and colors. When I was first diagnosed with fibromyalgia, my mom took me to Old Navy and gifted me three. I later thrifted one. These are comfortable enough to wear without a bra. This is my favorite Fibromyalgia Fashionista find on this list. My Pick: Old Navy Jersey Swing Dress for Women   2. Old Navy High-Waisted Leggings 2-Pack for Women   These are my favorite pair of leggings – a pack of one black and one gray, and there’s a plus-size version too! My weight fluctuates with fibromyalgia and I am bottom-heavy, so finding leggings to keep up is difficult. I find these are the Elastigirl of leggings at a great price. My Picks: Old Navy High-Waisted Leggings 2-Pack for Women   3. Juniors’ Joe B Paperbag Waist Wide Leg Pants   Now I will admit, these Paperbag Waist Wide Leg pants aren’t for everyone, but they will snazz up an outfit. These are for real Fashionista Spoonies looking for Spoonie Style! They’re fresh, they’re funky, and they’re soft as yoga pants with more breathing room and style. The Paperbag pants come in multiple colors and patterns from Kohl’s. My Pick: Juniors’ Joe B Paperbag Waist Wide Leg Pants   4. Amazon Brand Daily Ritual Women’s Jersey Short Sleeve Open Crewneck Tunic   This soft tunic available in multiple colors is long enough to be a dress on some people — if you’re under 5’4″ — but also makes an extremely comfortable shirt. Comfort like this is perfect for Fibromyalgia Fashionistas. Nothing scratches against your chest and it makes excellent street clothes or pajamas. My Pick: Amazon Brand Daily Ritual Women’s Jersey Short Sleeve Open Crewneck Tunic   5. The Genie Bra 3-Pack   For those of you with fibromyalgia who cannot go without a bra, this is for you. The Genie Bra is comfortable, breathable, and supportive. However, use the sizing chart and order one size up as it runs small in the band, which is a no-no for costochondritis and rib cage pain. As long as you order one size up, you will have perfect fibromyalgia fashionista comfort. The Genie Bra is a type of sports bra and you will have to pull it over your head, which I can still do. Unlike many sports bras, it is a low V-neck, making wearing low-cut shirts possible. My Pick: The Genie Bra 3-Pack   On Footwear Your mileage may vary depending on what your symptoms are. If your fibromyalgia involves swelling like me, you may find yourself living in boots all the time. I always wear high-quality Chelsea boots; right now my brand of choice is Franco Sarto. Others have fallen arches and must wear orthotic shoes — I used to do this until my feet became too swollen. For most Spoonie Fashionistas, I would recommend something soft with arch support, like a running shoe specifically fitted to your foot at a running store, or high-quality boots that are expensive. Spend at least 30 minutes in the store trying on the boots. The boots should have a low heel, low height and have a zipper. If you’re in Texas, cowboy boots could work fine — take it from a Texan. However, your leg could get stuck in the boot if you swell while wearing the cowboy boots. Mix and Match to Build Your Wardrobe Have some cardigans laying around pre-chronic illness? Pair it with a tunic and some leggings for some cute laid back street style. Add a beanie or beret for some artistry. Pair the tunic of a corresponding color with the Paperbag pants for an instant Fibromyalgia Fashionista “wow!” The little knit dresses go with everything, especially the solid color ones, so have fun with those, Spoonie Styler!

M. B. Manheimm

What to Know About Getting a Childhood Bipolar Disorder Diagnosis

Oftentimes, I hear people with any kind of health problem, mental or physical, express the wish that they had been diagnosed as a child so that they could have learned to handle their disease better. Diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, bipolar disorder type I at age 12, I can say that no — a childhood diagnosis is not always better. A childhood diagnosis does not always help you learn to better care for yourself because, well, you’re a child. And if you’re like me, it actually ruins your life by killing your body and numbing your mind with meds you’re personally not ready for. I personally became reliant on medication I couldn’t get off of, and depending on your parents, your diagnosis may be a tool for abuse . The thing about being a child is that, for one, you’re just a kid. When I was 12, I figured there wasn’t anything wrong with me and had no idea what the word “ bipolar ” or “schizoaffective” meant. I wound up in a psychiatrist’s office because I was being bullied at school and my parents never believed me. They would have believed me if I had gotten into a fistfight (OK, boomers), but because I came home crying every day, they assumed I was mentally ill. Despite the diagnosis and my vehement denial of it, as I struggle with it today, I was put on heavy antipsychotics at a very young age and began my path down to destruction. I took my meds as prescribed, mainly because when we came back from the pharmacy I refused and my mother shoved them down my throat. As in, grabbed me and held my mouth open. From then on I learned I had to take my meds. By the time I graduated high school, I had been conditioned to believe that if I felt a negative emotion, it was because my meds weren’t working and not because I was a teenage girl. At college, during my freshman year, I stopped taking my meds completely cold turkey. That year, I felt amazing. I was finally a “normal” girl. However, I also met the man who would become my abuser, and the following year entered a toxic relationship that would leave a permanent scar. During this relationship , I went back to taking my meds and found a psychiatrist. This time I really did think I was “crazy” – how could this be happening? Why was I treated like this? I eventually got out of the relationship and developed chronic migraines, which a neurologist attributed to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). At this point, I dedicated myself to a medication regimen and journaling, and eventually gained a glimpse of stability. This stability, however, was smashed. I cycled through a couple of therapists, many of whom didn’t believe I had bipolar disorder, but my psychiatrists did, until I developed fibromyalgia . Chronic pain broke me, and my long-standing psych meds took the blame for causing it. It was agreed that I needed to be taken off them, but each time an attempt to wean me off the meds was made, I went dangerously manic . I ran away from my new husband three times without warning to destinations hours away. This time around, I received a bipolar disorder and PTSD diagnosis, and was tasked with finding some powerful way of managing it for the first time in my life. I may have been diagnosed as a child with schizoaffective disorder, but I had no idea what self-care or self-love was. My feelings always took the back seat to biochemistry, and growing up I was denied therapy by my family because my psychiatrist believed I was too unstable for it. The entire time I thought I was just a kid, and I probably was. But I had become dependent on the medications, as I had been on them for 17 years at this point. Now I was trapped in a miserable body. I always struggled with a lack of self-love. How could I now? I was the most unstable I had ever been, doing the strangest and most hurtful things I had ever done. The psych meds and the pain meds were not working. When I looked in the mirror I cringed at what I saw. No longer athletic, my dream of being a yoga instructor felt impossible. These psych meds and my “poorly managed bipolar ” (to quote one of my many psychiatrists) was killing me. In all honesty, the average person with bipolar is diagnosed with it as an adult. I honestly can’t relate to that experience as someone who can barely remember life before psychiatry. But I do know that in my experience, once you get that label as a kid, you aren’t a kid anymore. That’s because bipolar is so stigmatized, and children can be crueler than adults. My father is a preacher, and I was forced to hide my diagnosis from everyone in the tiny town I grew up in as he was a public figure. Mom and dad told me no one would understand, and because of this I was in the “crazy people closet.” I understand the word “crazy” is offensive, but this negative self-talk was taught to me. As I write a book on disabilities, I am trying to unlearn the berating language directed at me I accepted as “normal” because, well, I was a child in the boonies. I had nothing else to compare to. About four people outside of my immediate family know of my diagnosis. It will probably always be that way, as I rarely come out of my “closet.” I’d more readily talk about chronic pain than bipolar and the injustice that taints it in my past. Whenever you get your diagnosis, I know it hurts. But you get it when you get it. To my bipolar kids and teens, I see you. To my adults, I have some war stories to swap if you need some comfort. It’s hard to learn it’s OK to be bipolar , and we’re all in this together.

Community Voices

My husbands family has always been horrible to me. They get together at their beach house 8 hours from here for Christmas, and my family traveles 12 hours to go to my grandma. Since developing my #ChronicIllness , I can’t travel for more than 45 minutes in a car one way. I will pass out in the car. And on family trips, I will sleep the entire time in bed (not the couch) away from everyone and have vivid hallucinations.

Husband is demanding to see his family, and I can’t keep him from that, but I have a sneaky feeling I’ll be alone at our house for Christmas. I know I probably can’t persuade anyone to stay with me.

Ideas/suggestions?

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M. B. Manheimm

What to Know About Getting a Childhood Bipolar Disorder Diagnosis

Oftentimes, I hear people with any kind of health problem, mental or physical, express the wish that they had been diagnosed as a child so that they could have learned to handle their disease better. Diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, bipolar disorder type I at age 12, I can say that no — a childhood diagnosis is not always better. A childhood diagnosis does not always help you learn to better care for yourself because, well, you’re a child. And if you’re like me, it actually ruins your life by killing your body and numbing your mind with meds you’re personally not ready for. I personally became reliant on medication I couldn’t get off of, and depending on your parents, your diagnosis may be a tool for abuse . The thing about being a child is that, for one, you’re just a kid. When I was 12, I figured there wasn’t anything wrong with me and had no idea what the word “ bipolar ” or “schizoaffective” meant. I wound up in a psychiatrist’s office because I was being bullied at school and my parents never believed me. They would have believed me if I had gotten into a fistfight (OK, boomers), but because I came home crying every day, they assumed I was mentally ill. Despite the diagnosis and my vehement denial of it, as I struggle with it today, I was put on heavy antipsychotics at a very young age and began my path down to destruction. I took my meds as prescribed, mainly because when we came back from the pharmacy I refused and my mother shoved them down my throat. As in, grabbed me and held my mouth open. From then on I learned I had to take my meds. By the time I graduated high school, I had been conditioned to believe that if I felt a negative emotion, it was because my meds weren’t working and not because I was a teenage girl. At college, during my freshman year, I stopped taking my meds completely cold turkey. That year, I felt amazing. I was finally a “normal” girl. However, I also met the man who would become my abuser, and the following year entered a toxic relationship that would leave a permanent scar. During this relationship , I went back to taking my meds and found a psychiatrist. This time I really did think I was “crazy” – how could this be happening? Why was I treated like this? I eventually got out of the relationship and developed chronic migraines, which a neurologist attributed to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). At this point, I dedicated myself to a medication regimen and journaling, and eventually gained a glimpse of stability. This stability, however, was smashed. I cycled through a couple of therapists, many of whom didn’t believe I had bipolar disorder, but my psychiatrists did, until I developed fibromyalgia . Chronic pain broke me, and my long-standing psych meds took the blame for causing it. It was agreed that I needed to be taken off them, but each time an attempt to wean me off the meds was made, I went dangerously manic . I ran away from my new husband three times without warning to destinations hours away. This time around, I received a bipolar disorder and PTSD diagnosis, and was tasked with finding some powerful way of managing it for the first time in my life. I may have been diagnosed as a child with schizoaffective disorder, but I had no idea what self-care or self-love was. My feelings always took the back seat to biochemistry, and growing up I was denied therapy by my family because my psychiatrist believed I was too unstable for it. The entire time I thought I was just a kid, and I probably was. But I had become dependent on the medications, as I had been on them for 17 years at this point. Now I was trapped in a miserable body. I always struggled with a lack of self-love. How could I now? I was the most unstable I had ever been, doing the strangest and most hurtful things I had ever done. The psych meds and the pain meds were not working. When I looked in the mirror I cringed at what I saw. No longer athletic, my dream of being a yoga instructor felt impossible. These psych meds and my “poorly managed bipolar ” (to quote one of my many psychiatrists) was killing me. In all honesty, the average person with bipolar is diagnosed with it as an adult. I honestly can’t relate to that experience as someone who can barely remember life before psychiatry. But I do know that in my experience, once you get that label as a kid, you aren’t a kid anymore. That’s because bipolar is so stigmatized, and children can be crueler than adults. My father is a preacher, and I was forced to hide my diagnosis from everyone in the tiny town I grew up in as he was a public figure. Mom and dad told me no one would understand, and because of this I was in the “crazy people closet.” I understand the word “crazy” is offensive, but this negative self-talk was taught to me. As I write a book on disabilities, I am trying to unlearn the berating language directed at me I accepted as “normal” because, well, I was a child in the boonies. I had nothing else to compare to. About four people outside of my immediate family know of my diagnosis. It will probably always be that way, as I rarely come out of my “closet.” I’d more readily talk about chronic pain than bipolar and the injustice that taints it in my past. Whenever you get your diagnosis, I know it hurts. But you get it when you get it. To my bipolar kids and teens, I see you. To my adults, I have some war stories to swap if you need some comfort. It’s hard to learn it’s OK to be bipolar , and we’re all in this together.

M. B. Manheimm

Yes, It's OK To Be Depressed After Your Wedding

Post-wedding depression is not a mental health condition often talked about. Usually, it’s swept under the rug and only secretly disclosed online. Just because you have post-wedding depression doesn’t mean you’re unhappy with your spouse – it just means you’ve exited an intense period of life that is hard to move on from. When I first became engaged to my husband, I ordered all the wedding books, researched and meticulously planned until I ended up in the ER with nerve damage. Also pulled in all sorts of directions by my in-laws and family, I found myself struggling with people-pleasing. My planning season was an emotional roller coaster, but I loved the planning part. I designed so many things and perused so many websites I can now call myself a wedding connoisseur, as I am sure many of us brides are. After my wedding, in the 12-hour time-slot before I left for my honeymoon, I felt despair. Growing up, I was the little girl who played wedding in diapers. I was the ultimate wedding dreamer. But the bubble popped and here I was: married, unemployed and disabled. Going to grad school in the fall after was a huge excitement, but I was given a false diagnosis of lupus three days before my wedding that loomed over my triumphs. The honeymoon provided another high, but immediately after coming home, things turned south. Why couldn’t I walk on my own? The post-wedding depression continued into March 2020. When COVID-19 hit I had a giant brain worm: a wedding planner for disabled couples. I wrote about 100 pages of it in two weeks, then fleshed it out with interviews from the community. In trying to cope with post-wedding depression, I turned back to weddings (one of my favorite things) to try to help people. It works best when I’m coming hard at it on the weekends or discussing it with my professors, who have taken an interest in the book: “Wedding Planning for Spoonies,” a wedding planner for people with chronic illness and mobility aid users. The beauty, purpose and creativity involved in weddings lit my brain up like a live wire. To see it poof out of thin air, after its most important culmination, drove me to writing more seriously. I wrote about fashion, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and my experiences as a newly disabled wife facing an unknown world. It’s possible to rebound and live with post-wedding depression. If you found this because you’re feeling guilty about the post-wedding blues, you aren’t alone. You’ve definitely got a friend in me. Follow this journey on the author’s blog.

M. B. Manheimm

When People and Doctor's Dismiss Fibromyalgia

Fibromyalgia is a serious musculoskeletal pain disorder caused by misfiring of pain signals in the brain. It is an invisible illness. The intense pain brought on by the illness and the mirage of a healthy, so-perceived “normal” person often leads to anxiety and depression. If you are experiencing intense, full-body physical pain and you don’t know why, know that you should take your symptoms seriously even if others don’t. For the past year, I have been seeking out my formal diagnosis. Lupus, adhesive arachnoiditis and rheumatoid arthritis have recently been ruled out. Right now one contender, the final diagnosis, remains: fibromyalgia. And it hurts. Because having fibromyalgia feels like having imposter syndrome. On television shows like “Parks and Recreation,” which I once loved, there are jokes that minimize fibromyalgia as a “fake disease.” I once heard one philosophy professor of mine belittle his uncle’s chronic fatigue syndrome, aka myalgic encephalitis, as “just being tired all the time, but of course he is, he’s just old!” Then there were my friends and loved ones, who either didn’t know what fibromyalgia was and had no idea I wasn’t faking being in pain, but rather thought I experienced extreme anxiety. Many of them expressed disgust at my weight gain and the fact I could no longer walk around a grocery store. All of this made me feel like my illness, my fibromyalgia, had to be something else. It had to be something worse, otherwise these terrible things wouldn’t be happening to me. I had to have more than “just fibromyalgia.” One friend who worked in a lab told me that “fibromyalgia doesn’t do that” and “this must be my fault.” My fault. Yes, this was all my fault. I felt it in my bones to the point I could scream. And I would cry and scream during the worst of my pain flares that left me in bed. This could not be fibromyalgia, the imposter of chronic illnesses. How could something as fake, as little researched, as as all-in-my-head be fibromyalgia? If only I had a more positive outlook. That was it. I needed to think clearer and brighter. It was poor medication management. So I went and bought a pill keeper. Should I dare believe I could walk around a grocery store, I could. My 60-year-old mother could. Then I went to physical therapy. All these things helped me feel better. But there were still those days when I would read the Bible in bed sobbing, knowing I must be a fake because of my fibromyalgia. Having fibromyalgia was my fault. If it wasn’t, why would I have it? It was a product of a dark mind. The brighter the mind, the lesser the pain. But I found that wasn’t always true. In my grad school work, the more physical activity I endured the poorer my grades were. So I had to let my husband shoulder more responsibilities around the house. I was a failure as a wife, who as a homemaker’s job was to keep a tidy house. It was all in my head. This was all my fault. The world had pointed its finger at me and I pointed that finger back at myself. If you’ve ever felt this when people don’t take your fibromyalgia seriously, know you’re not alone. There are millions of people struggling from fibromyalgia, and thousands of them are online. Finding community boils down to preference. Take a chance here at The Mighty, where I first found community during my diagnosis struggle.

Community Voices

#MorningRoutine from a Yogi


#MorningRoutine
As I am in my yoga teacher training certification program, I start my day at 6am by doing at least 5 minutes of yoga on my mat, followed by 15 minutes of I AM affirmation meditation. Then I turn on chakra healing music and count my breaths slowly in the dark. I keep the chakra music on while I study the Bible, the Gita, and the yoga sutras. I end with a thanksgiving prayer. I turn the music off and chart my mood in my mental health journal. Lastly, I use my paper journal to carefully plan out my day.

Community Voices

#Bipolar type 1 overspending

hey #Bipolar fam,
in the past year I have become more compulsive. in the past month I’ve probably spent over $500 on stupid things like hair dye, artwork, and Halloween decorations. the whole time I didn’t seem to to notice I was manic until I purchased Halloween decor in July.
this would be less of a problem if I wasn’t married to a guy who is a stickler about cash. or married at all, because marriage means you’re attached to somebody and they are impacted if you go manic and ruin both y’all’s bank accounts.

so, how do you deal with this? I’ve never dealt with this before. help!

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