Tag Archives: motherhood

She didn’t want me anymore

I’m noticing a theme in my entries. A good portion of them talk about losing friends, how I felt about it, and why I think I felt that way. I can tell you that my feelings are as real as the experiences, but they’re not the whole story.

Most relationships are fluid. I don’t know why it happens that way. I have a few sturdy relationships, those that last and get stronger sometimes, then weaker, but are always close. My brother is one, Mauditmo is one, and I hope my husband is one.

What makes them different than the other people I’ve written about? I don’t know. My brother and I are almost four years apart. He is so physically gorgeous I had a therapist once ask me if there was any animosity on my part. (He looks like one of the guys from those teen vampire flicks) There has never been any animosity, for one I had been raised by my parents to believe I was one of the most beautiful girls the world had ever known. I realize now that is not true. I am not unattractive, but I have acne scars and Hermione hair (most of the time). I am also thirty-five and rarely wear make-up. If I cared, I would. I think if he had been the sister I so desperately wanted, of we were closer in age I might have felt that way, but I didn’t, and never have. I doubt I ever will.

I think what makes Mauditmo and me friends after all these years is devotion. We are hardly alike at all. Her family background and mine are polar opposites. She likes four seasons, she gets to study and write all over the United States. I forwarded her a funny youtube video and she not only didn’t laugh, she told me her life was not a whole lot different than it was at twenty-one. She doesn’t do anyone’s laundry but her own. I do a lot of laundry, tiny dresses and panties, sweaty t-shirts and a lot of lounge pants. We’ve traveled together, loving the coast while we headed to Canada. We’ve taken long round trip friends to the city where both of our extended families still live.

She is also considerably smarter than most people, including me. I am considerably more spiritual and am devoted to Jesus. Religion is not on the radar for her. She’s studying at an extremely prestigious writing school and I am writing a blog in my two story track home. My seven year old is waiting down stairs for me to help her learn to ride a bike. She doesn’t really want to. My husband says she just doesn’t want to do something hard.

I best go.

My husband is the one I worry about, to be honest. He loves me; I love him. We are supposed to sustain this love forever. It’s a source of fretting. I think we will be together, and I have reasons why: our vows. We both promised in sickness and in health and there has been a lot more sickness around here lately. Good thing it’s so specific.

The odds for us are not good. 90% of marriages, where one partner is bipolar, end in divorce. B wants to approach heaven with the confidence that will come with making a marriage to a bipolar woman work. It’s not only my issues, though. He knows that, and certainly God knows that.


You’re a mean mommy

She said it calmly, as we were de-pressurizing from a minor altercation.

It was simple. Her backpack was open. She was chattering away down the drive way. I said, “Stop!” and she didn’t so I said it again. Then again. Finally, I hit the car to make a loud noise so she would listen. (It was already an exercise in stupidity.) She stopped. I zipped her backpack. I said, “Let’s try this again.” She didn’t want to, but she did.

“I thought you told me to stop talking. So I did.” She is a sparkling, spirited and obedient girl. I tell her something once and she usually does it. If she doesn’t I start counting, 1, 2, 3) and she hates that so much she straightens up very quickly. (There is no spanking at number five, or anything like that – she just hates being counted on.) I explained it was because I wanted her to stop walking with her open backpack. “Maybe we can communicate better next time? You can stay ‘stop’ but you can explain what you want me to stop.” (She just turned seven and is able to analyze the conflict better than many adults.)

Next time was going to be right now, so we went back to the porch and tried again. We walked to school. She asked me, “Why did you hit the car?”

“Because I wanted you to listen to me.”

“It just scared me.”

We had a short discussion on whether I am a “mean mommy” or not. I probably am a partially mean mommy. I think that children use that phrase to garner revenge on their parents but I don’t think that is what she was trying to do, I think she was trying to quantify her experience. Two years ago the mommy of which she said, “you don’t just cook and cuddle, you do all things loving,” was not acting like someone who does “all things loving.” This required a new evaluation of the situation.

I am not a yeller. I can lose my temper, but if I do, I try to remove myself from the situation and check in later. It was a source of pride for me that I had yelled or snapped at her less than five times by the time she was five. It just wasn’t part of my parenting tool kit. Mind you there were plenty of other things I squeezed in the kit that were both ridiculous and futile, it’s just that yelling or stomping my feet or hitting the car had not been one of them.

Earlier in the week I was on the phone with something to do with the bills. I was on the computer, and my husband was on one side of the breakfast bar and my daughter on the other. They were asking me to press 1 for blah blah and 2 for another blah and three for blah blah blah. I couldn’t hear, I had already pushed the wrong button once and I raised my voice (notice: didn’t even yell) “Stop talking!”

My husband was surprised, and I was shocked. Small was terrified and confused. I said I was sorry, even though I felt justified. I should have taken the computer and phone upstairs, but that didn’t occur to me until about three minutes ago.

So I was being grouchy. I don’t know what is happening to me. I don’t think it’s a bipolar/OCD/ADD thing – I think it’s a human thing. A bipolar thing might be to throw the phone at the offending party. (I don’t throw things, though). An ADD thing might tap into her secret spider sense to be able to hyper focus, or at least moved her computer out of the way. I don’t know how OCD might play into it, but I’m sure there is some way to blame it and not take responsibility for my own actions. (A charged statement. Many times my mood takes chemically over my body, but this was not the situation.)

I’ve been doing yoga pretty regularly, and it has helped a lot as far as feeling like my body is healthy and my mind is clearer. It hasn’t helped with my mood, though. I need to spend more time in the Bible, in my DBT (Dialectal Behavior Therapy) and to take my pills. That will be enough to probably keep me stable. Then again, bipolar still wins sometimes.

I’ll be gone for the next few days, so I won’t be on the computer until Sunday/Monday. Be well over the next few days.


on missing meds

Last night I took a whole bunch of vitamins.  I take B-12, B-6 and five fish oil capsules.  I was laying in bed.  I thought:  “Did I take the medication?”  Of course I did.

This morning when I went down stairs I looked at the pill box.  I had skipped them.  Dammit.

I know what this means and I don’t like it.  For at least the next three days I will be off.  I won’t be able to think, I’ll cry when even a little thing hurts me or upsets me.    I am a mess right now.  I’ve stopped crying but haven’t started dancing, and it’s a happy time and I’m not participating in it because I can’t.  We had a wonderful Thanksgiving.  But I discovered last night that among the pictures I took only seventeen were readable.  Devastating.  I couldn’t get either one of the cameras my parents gave me to work consistently, even when I replaced the batteries.  Stressful.  We went to the Hanging of the Greens at church and I used Mr. Malakoa’s cell phone to take pictures and there was no flash.  Tragic.  My good friend and her husband are separating.  They have six kids.  Distressing.  All of this would have been like water off a duck’s bath, but not without my meds.

Meds don’t really change my personality though, they really don’t.  Of course I wouldn’t be crying all the time in my “right” mind.  I don’t want this kind of ‘self’.  I am much happier with these medications than I could ever be, more even and even happier with them.  I’m not always happy, but I have the choice to be happy.  Without meds I can’t hold it together.  My true self is not a crier, I’m not miserable and I’m not struck by the grief of life.   Without meds I have to cry, be miserable and make others grief my grief.  It’s not a position where I can live well and help others.  (I do not like that quality in people.  I feel that people who cry all the time do so because it makes everything be about them.  This is not helpful.)  With medication I am able to hold it together enough to minister to others in their distressed states.  I want to be able to do these things.  I cannot be anything I want to be to anyone when I am sick.

Except  I can remember this time when things are better. I can fight my way out of it and tell others why and how I did it.  I’ll be okay soon, so long as I remember all that I have done to sink to the depths and risen to some sort of normalcy.  I’ll never be “normal” it’s just not who I am, but I will be able to do things like go to the grocery store without filling the basket with various chocolates, potato chips, sodas and bacon.  I’d like to be able to listen to someone else talk and empathize, rather than just falling apart.  I want all these things and they aren’t an option in a depressed state.  Or a mixed state.  I have to be careful.

But being careful is not fun.  This means I have to go to bed earlier than usual.  It means trying with all my might to wash, dry and fold and put away laundry.  It can take hours and hours to do so.  It means fights with my husband.  It means my daughter telling me, “I know what will make you happy!” and going to get her favorite blanket or stickers for my book-making.  That hurts the most.  I am happy to see she’s a child with empathy, but don’t want her to remember me like this – constantly needy, in bed or eating.  I don’t want to nurture a burgeoning co-dependent.  I want her to be confident, Godly and loving.  Am I providing this kind of home for her?  How can I?