Bipolar, bipolar disorder, blogging, journaling, mental health

The Death of Creativity

Painting and writing, drawing and building. The creativity flows thoughtlessly throughout my body. My fingertips create lovely scenes on canvas. My mind chooses all the right words to dictate into paper. My pencil guides me as I draw Disney characters like my life depends on it. My eyes envision and create stunning websites and marketing flyers. I can do anything with my creativity.

Until it’s killed. Murdered in cold blood. Left lifeless thrown in an alley, getting ate up by stray cats. Yes, that’s exactly what happens. My medicine kicks in and suddenly all the bad habits are gone, like spending money and racing thoughts and hallucinations, but with the disappearance of them, they steal my creativity.

I’m struggling now to find the words to describe such a loss. A week ago, the words would have came with ease. They would have spilled onto the page without my brain even registering it.

I struggle at work now, designing drab marketing flyers, that I hate. I have no new ideas.

So do I continue with these meds or do I get my creative juices back. For some it’s a simple decision. But for me, with a husband and kids, it’s not so cut and dry. People are depending on me. Leaning on me and looking up to me.

Bipolar is a very selfish illness and I have been fighting the urge to make myself happy this past week. Having my creativeness back would make me happy, for the moment. Although I know it would spiral and soon it wouldn’t be enough. It’s hard to let go of something that makes you feel so good. But ultimately, I have to look at the big picture.

My creativity has died.

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mental health

Recovery, Giving yourself credit

With Bipolar Disorder, or any mental illness for that matter, there comes a point where you reach the recovery stage. The mania has settled or the pills are finally starting to work and you can feel the depression lifting. These are very crucial periods in our lives as people afflicted with a mental illness.

Right now, this time has come for me. My mania is finally settling down, I’ve went from 4 hours of sleep a night to a full eight hours in the last 2 days. I just recently had my medication switched and the dosage upped, so I’m sure that has had it’s impact. I can feel the awkward feeling of not being able to conquer the world that I just so recently had. I can feel my insane amount of energy draining to a more “normal” level. Almost to the point of feeling lethargic. I am starting to be able to process my thoughts and the voices and shadow men that so often came to visit me, are no longer making appearances.

It’s a strange feeling, recovery. I’ve worked so hard to get to this point the last month or so and now that it is here, I almost feel like I have not done enough. That I should be doing more to help myself. I should be doing more for my family, for my friends. I should be doing something.

I talked with my therapist about this and she gave me some great words of wisdom that I would like to pass onto anyone else who may be feeling this way.

You are doing great, give yourself a break and stop being so hard on yourself. You just struggled for weeks, or months, you are finding your way back. You are on the right track. You are doing what you need to do and you are doing great. There comes a point in recovery when you will be able to look yourself in the mirror and you will be proud. You will love the person that you have become, or the person you are becoming. This takes time for most of us, but as long as you celebrate the small steps and stay on course, you will get to that point.

So hang in there fellow Bipolars. Things can and do get better. If you are struggling now, or need help, please reach out. Life is too short to spend it in a constant state of instability.

Good luck!

mental health

The breaking point.

My eyes are swollen. I can’t breath. I can’t speak. I try to form sentences, but my throat won’t let the words escape.

The truth was told. My demons were released and now I’m going to pay for that. The men told me not to tell, they told me that I would die if I did. I’m not afraid of death. At this rate between the men, the voices, the fits of raging and uncontrollable sobbing, death would be a much needed vacation. Death would end it all. Death would take away my pain. It would end the burden that is me, from my family. My children would be better off. Who needs a blubbering, hysterical mother? I know I wouldn’t want one.

Don’t try to tell me I’m a good mom, don’t try to tell me that my family loves me. Don’t tell me that living this life is better than it all just ending. Because you are wrong. The men tell me over and over how happier everyone would be. They tell me over and over what a shitty mom I am. They attack me, at my weakest points. And those walls have finally broke.

I’m sobbing. I told my husband everything. I told him about the men, about the voices. About the instant wave of relief that rushes over me when I think I may get into a car accident and just never wake up to live this awful life again. I told. I wasn’t supposed to.

So now I wait for the men to come and make good on their threats. I know the torment is coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t turn this off. I can’t stop obsessing about it because it’s the only thing that goes on in my head. I try to read, the voices drown out the words, I try to write, I keep deleting the voices’ words. It’s never ending.

Hold on for a few more days. I go to the dr. Soon. Saturday soon, but that’s not soon enough.