A Message to the Hurting
I may never meet the man who saved my life. My existence had shrunk down so that what I called living was mostly conducted through the Internet. For five months or more I had missed work and church. I slept only when my body could not take anymore of being awake. I ate only when my husband handed me food. What “living” I did consisted of doctor’s offices, chairs in therapy and a nurse who monitored my medication.
I was confused. I was scared. I was alone.
No one called. No one wrote. No one checked in. After about month two, even my Christian community was silent.
I tried reaching out. I asked for love. I asked for help. I asked for friendship. I asked for communion. People lead their own lives. People had their own things going. People were too busy to even slot me in.
My husband tried to shoulder the burden. The more I hurt him, the more guilty I felt. For months, however, he was my everything. When I forgot to eat, he fed me. When yet another person had brushed me off, he told me jokes. I tried. For him, I tried. But inside, I was dying. Inside I felt that I was screaming into a void, bleeding all over the floor with no one to stitch up my heart.
And then came the diagnosis. After years of going from counselor to counselor, Bible study to Bible study, potential friend to potential friend, doctor to doctor…years of sleeping too much or not at all, eating too much or forgetting meals entirely, shunning work and existing only for my bed, I met her.
I didn’t have much hope, really. SOME of my past therapists had tried to fill in my missing puzzle pieces. Most, however, listened to only half of what I said and gave their opinions based on what they heard.
See, I have a hard time speaking. During important conversations, I stammer. I repeat words, I end sentences on questions when they do not need to be, I trail off without ever really making a point. It’s not that I expect everyone to read my mind. It’s just that I somehow cannot make what is flowing so coherently in my head come intelligibly out of my mouth. I’m hard to talk to. I’m hard to understand. Even to the people most trying to love me. As a result, the more frustrated that -they- get, the more I feel that it’s -my- fault. I feel guilty. I feel ashamed. I feel impossible to love.
For years, therefore, I had searched for an answer. A key. A talisman. A magic word that would unlock the me inside. Someone brave. Someone strong. Someone who was worth something. Not the ugly, selfish, worthless mistake that I felt everyone could see. One by one, my therapists gave up on me. Year after year the answers I sought refused to come. I hated Christmas because it represented yet ANOTHER twelve months of shame, of loss, of failure.
“There -is- something wrong with you” my husband agreed while reiterating that we would never have children because of my (at that time unnamed) chronic condition “I just don’t know what”.
I didn’t know what either. I couldn’t explain WHY my mind was a battlefield. I did not know how to verbalize the experience of my body being unable to take any more mental wars and just collapsing inward on itself. I didn’t know WHY the Bible verses I have been able to quote since grade school and the hymns that I learned before I could really talk weren’t enough. I questioned my faith. I questioned my existence. I questioned my sanity. I felt ugly. I felt unwanted. I felt useless. Most of all, I felt guilty. I would sleep for fourteen, fifteen, twenty hours at a time while my husband was at work. I felt guilty. I felt selfish. I didn’t understand why he didn’t just put me aside. Surely, I reasoned, his life would be better off without me.
And then we met her. This counselor HASN”T given up on me. This counselor hugs. This counselor listens. This counselor cares.
This counselor gave me a word.
The war in my soul? The battle in my head? The division in my heart?
It has a name.
Bipolar.
Bipolar.
The connections in my brain don’t work like the connections in the brains of my friends and families do.
Clinical Depression goes along with it.
Thus the lack of food and over reliance on sleeping.
And PTSD
PTSD, the cherry on this particular sundae.
I had answers.
I had explanations.
I just didn’t know what to do with them.
I can be creative.
I can be kind.
I can love music and books and rainbows and sunsets and all kinds of beautiful things.
But I can also be hurt.
I can be afraid.
My mind can turn against itself.
I can be compelled over and over again to finish THIS task or the items on THAT list before I am able to rest.
Sometimes sleep takes over.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes I get up from my bed because the thoughts are too much and all I can do is turn on the music or put the TV on low or play a game of solitaire until I can sleep again.
Just for a moment.
Until the circle comes round once more.
The diagnosis helped.
My condition informs a lot of my personality.
I’m seeing answers every day.
The diagnosis helped.
Until it didn’t.
The first course of treatment they put me on worked for two days.
I woke up feeling bad.
Before we could even get into the car to go to the hospital, my body began taking over. Involuntary, the movement of my limbs were. Unasked for were the noises coming out of my mouth.
Time in the hospital.
Allergic reaction.
Scary.
And back to square one.
While seeking something that WOULD’NT make me twitch and jerk and vocalize, the reality hit me.
I WILL BE LIKE THIS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
I will never NOT be bipolar.
I cannot wish it away.
I cannot take a magical pill, turn a magical key, speak a magical word.
Get a second opinion.
Just have faith.
Cling to what you know about Christ and His kingdom.
Such was the advice of those around me.
And, of course, my favorite.
Just don’t be depressed.
Okay.
Okay.
I just won’t.
I just won’t have curly hair.
I just won’t have color changing eyes.
I just won’t burn in the sun.
Thanks for the advice, lady.
I just won’t be depressed.
Why didn’t I think of that?
This is me
Forever.
And it got to me.
It got to me bad one morning.
See, I stay up until three or four or seven a lot of times.
I keep vampire hours.
No one is around at three.
No one is around at four.
People don’t have time at seven.
People are busy.
People need sleep.
People don’t have time for me
or any of my stuff.
I’m alone at three.
I’m alone at four.
I’m alone at seven
because by then
my husband is off to the office
which I rarely see anymore
And that night I was alone.
No children, he had said.
Just call on Jesus, people advised.
Backs turned, my community demonstrated.
And the online group I had joined discussed pain
and cancers
and not being able to breathe
and dislocated knees
and popping joints
and systems that shut down
when they themselves stood up
They were kind
But they didn’t fight my battle
They dealt primarily with the body
I was fighting my mind
It was three in the morning
I had no where to go
I had tried
After I sleep, was the answer
When I’m less busy, I was told
We’ll catch up someday, people said
Go to bed
Go to bed
It will all be better in the morning
Three o’clock WAS the morning
It wasn’t any better
Ugly
Useless
Smelly from no showers
Exhausted from no rest
Isolated from myself
Hurting my husband
Pierced by shattered dreams
I would never truly be a wife
Or a mother
Or brave
Or strong
Or beautiful
Or really
Anything at all
It hurt
Knowing that all I was doing was hurting the people I loved
Knowing that the people I loved didn’t love me
Knowing
Knowing
That everyone would be better off
I made plans
I HAD been making plans
I didn’t intend to be here in the morning
And then he came
My world was online, remember
There was no one to talk to at three in the morning
Everyone was asleep
Everyone wanted ME to be asleep
I wasn’t asleep
I was alone
Abandoned
Afraid
But he said hi
He was in my group
And he said hi
And I said hi
And he asked me what was wrong
We had never met
We WILL never meet
But he saved my life
See, my world is dramatic
My world is emotional
My world loves soap opera antics and overly exaggerated gasps and high pitched screams
My world is selfish
My world says things like
But you have to stay for ME
and
Oh no, you really don’t want to do THAT
or
You don’t really mean it, you are always trying to get attention
My world piles on the guilt
And selfishness
And shame
My world interrupts
My world is impatient
My world doesn’t listen
But he?
He did.
Without theatrics
Without melodrama
Without emotion
He listened
(well, he read)
He didn’t give me fake sympathy
He didn’t hand out guilt
He didn’t even say no
What he said was wait
Calmly
Quietly
He told me to wait
Tomorrow isn’t here yet, he said
Stick around
It might be better
And I did
I didn’t kill myself that night
I was there
When the clock struck four
And six
And seven
It’s not easy
I still forget to eat
And take to my bed
I still cry when my mind sends out its soldiers
More often than not
I am still awake at three in the morning
More often than not
While the world sleeps
I am alone
I am alone
But I am alive
He’s right you know
I DON’T know what will happen tomorrow
I could win a million dollars
or I could wade through the crappiest day of my life
It’s a mystery
But it’s now MY mystery
MY puzzle
MY riddle to solve
It’s not easy
But it’s now
It’s here
And tomorrow
And tomorrow
And the tomorrow after that
Might just be better than today
And you?
I can’t fight your battle for you
I can’t tell you that there is magic
I can’t tell you to walk in the sun
But I can stay awake
I can be here
With you
I can listen
I can care
I can ask you to stick around
I can be calm
I can be quiet
And I can remind you that you don’t have to go through this alone
Because your tomorrow?
You don’t know
And next week
And the week after that
Might just be better
Might just turn out better
Might just be better
Than your today