There is Hope

If someone had asked me back in the summer of 2006 whether I ever thought I’d become a mental health advocate, I probably would have responded with tears instead of words. Because crying is what I did the most of that year. It was as if I were trying to cry out my severe depression. Cry all the tears until there were no more left to cry. Smiles, laughter, and happiness hid deep inside of me, dying to emerge, but too suppressed by the pain.

Back then, I couldn’t see hope. I couldn’t see my future because I was blinded by the tears of my sadness over losing my old self to my mental illness. I had a very difficult time accepting the fact that I was sick and needed help and medicine to get me back to well again. Each and every day of that year felt like a lifetime. I flew back to my parent’s house in Florida and spent several weeks with them while they helped me get treatment. The constant anxiety over my future, feeling like things would never get better, the intense darkness inside my heart made 2006 the longest and most challenging year of my life thus far.

The Overnight walk this past weekend was a night I will remember forever. I was honored to be among such an incredible group of nearly 2,000 walkers who each had been impacted by the loss of someone they loved to suicide and/or their own personal struggles with mental illness. The mood was solemn yet so full of inspiration. I met new friends and learned their stories of loss but also heard their dedication to spreading the message of hope and encouragement to those struggling. Hugs flowed freely everywhere you looked.

We talked as we walked, about the friends we had lost, about our own struggles, and about our hopes for the future: that we can help to break down the stigma that surrounds mental illness so that people won’t be afraid of reaching out for help when they need it most. Tons of photos we took during the night, posted to social media for the world to see, tell the story of our journey. I will treasure these images because they remind me how important it is that I’m sharing my story.

I walked with my friends Cristi @MotherUnadorned, Kiran @kferrandino, Jenni @zrecsmom, and Angel @mediamatson from dusk to dawn. We passed many of the gorgeous monuments and they lit the way for us as we made our way through our nation’s capital, passing the White House before making it to the dinner stop at 1:20am. At Farragut Square, we sat and ate for twenty minutes before heading out to finish the trek. We crossed the finish line at 4:15am and entered the finishing area where over 2,000 luminaries lined the walkway, each glowing with a loved one’s image and words of love and hope. It brought us back to the reason we were all there. To pay tribute to those we had lost and to strengthen our commitment to the cause of preventing suicide.

Without the help and support of my husband, my parents, my in-laws, my brother and sisters-in-law, and countless other family members and friends, I may not be where I am today. Because when things became so hopeless for me, when I wanted to give up my fight to get well, they kept fighting for me. They stood by me, and fought hard. I’m so grateful that they did.

They gave me hope to keep going. To keep fighting. To keep trying to fly again.

I’m proud to say that today I am flying. And the only reason I’m looking back is to help others. To show them there is hope. That they can get well with help and hard work.

This luminary caught my eye on the steps of the stage waiting for the closing ceremony. It sums up perfectly what the Overnight is all about:

Don't ever give up hope. Help is available if you need it. If you are in crisis, call 1-800-273-TALK (8255) National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

PS. Thank you to all those who supported me on this walk. Collectively, the walk raised $2.6 million dollars - which is SO AWESOME! Donations are still being accepted though, for all the important work they do at the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. If you'd like to donate, my walker page is available here.

Imagine: Five Minute Friday {9}

Photo credit: cocabeenslinky via Compfight cc

Imagine a world void of stigma. A place where we’re all supportive of each other’s uniqueness. Imagine embracing mental illness rather than ostracizing and shaming people who did nothing to ask for the condition they’re living with, other than be born. Imagine supportive love, a constant shoulder to lean on or ear to listen when times get tough, healing words which encourage. This is how I imagine life in the future. The very near future.

When I imagine a world without stigma, my heart relaxes and smiles with gratitude.

On Staying Up All Night

Over the course of the past three months, I’ve made the transformation from Mental Health Consumer to Mental Health Consumer/Advocate, and from anonymous blogger to someone who finally realized she was entitled to call herself a writer. A writer who was no longer afraid to write her truth.

And I’m only just getting started.

Here’s a quick re-cap of the intertwining events of the past few months which led up to what is taking place this weekend.

Back in March, I attended the Wild Mountain Memoir Retreat as a newly self-proclaimed writer. It was on the Friday the retreat began when I read the email that I had received my first offer to join a major parenting website as a contributing blogger. A paid contributing blogger. They were going to pay me to write for them.

I was at the top of the highest high possible without actually being manic. It was blissfully refreshing.

This was my first post: My Love/Hate Relationship with Sleep. It was featured on the AOL Homepage on April 11th, and although it wasn't the post I had hoped would be my "coming out" piece to the world, I was still very appreciative for the exposure and was in complete awe of the avalanche of love and support that followed from my family, friends, and readers I had never met before.

The following day I posted what I would have chosen as my reveal post, had I been given the choice. My Time to Stand Up to Stigma was my big announcement to whoever was willing to listen. I stood at the top of the platform that is my blog and said {well, wrote, actually}: "I have bipolar disorder, and I'm no longer ashamed about it. I'm ready to finally show my true colors and talk about that piece of my life because I believe it's important for me to do so."

After having met an incredible person and fellow writer, Natalie, who happened to be my roommate at Wild Mountain, I had purpose to make my next leap. Natalie had overcome a suicide attempt last year, and her story inspired me to sign up to walk the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's Overnight Walk {this weekend!} in Washington, DC. I had heard the commercials on the radio prior to meeting Nat, but it was only after listening to her tell me the harrowing narrative of what she went through that I actually logged onto AFSP's site to register to walk.

I've raised $2,025 for the walk thus far, and will be meeting up with several blogging friends (and meeting new ones!) over the weekend who have also made the same commitment to the cause. We believe in the importance of speaking out, of telling our stories, of starting the conversations about mental illness so that we can help others. I am so proud to be a part of this amazing event. {Follow me on Twitter (@BipolarMomLife) as I live-Tweet during the event.}

I'm a part of a movement that is changing the world. One word at a time. One day (& night) at a time. One reader at a time. If I were never diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I might not be writing right now. I consider my mental illness a blessing in disguise because at first diagnosis I became a prisoner of my condition. But over the years I've learned that condition doesn't have to take over my life. In fact, it enriches my life.

Over the past few months, I've chosen to stop wasting time being scared of being vulnerable because life is too damn short. I've realized that it’s my life to live and I control the end of my story. Staying up all night - for ONE night* - this Saturday into Sunday is only the beginning.

*I have put several precautions in place for this weekend, including asking my parents to be here so that the kids will be taken care of while I nap before and catch up on sleep after the walk. Staying healthy for myself and my family is my number one priority. 

My latest post for WhatToExpect.com's Word of Mom blog is live! Please stop by & check it out if you have a few minutes. It's got an important message. 10 Reasons I'm Thankful I'm a Mom Fighting a Mental Illness Thanks so much!

A Life I Love: Blogging for Mental Health

Sometimes it’s hard to come to terms with the reality of what life has thrown at me. Why me?

Sometimes it’s beyond scary to admit that I’m struggling. I feel so alone.

Sometimes I fear that my friends will turn their back on me if they know the whole truth. How am I going to share everything?

Sometimes it’s terrifying to look back at what happened in the past because of what could have been. I’ve changed so much in such a short amount of time.

Sometimes I look around at all I have, the decisions I’ve made, how far I’ve come and I am in complete awe of my life’s fullness. How did I get so lucky?

On days like today, when the sun is so far lost behind the piles of sheer white and grey clouds, I find myself wrestling with my emotions. On days like today it’s so easy to remember if I let myself go there. The dark days, the weeks and weeks of bleak, dull depression that had wrapped its claws around me like a cat that caught a field mouse. The not being able to pull myself out of bed in the morning and the falling asleep on the couch in the late afternoon because it was so much easier to dwell in my grief than it was to push it aside to try to function normally. I haven’t felt that heaviness, the crushing weight of desperation, in seven years.

And for that I have so much gratitude.

But on days like today, twinges of it come back. And I don’t push them away. I let them come and I let myself acknowledge them, if only for a moment. Because I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to ever forget what I’m fighting for every day.

My mental health.

Not only for myself. But for my family. For my incredibly laid-back, fun-loving, funny, intelligent and handsome husband. The one who was by my side from the first day it all hit to the present. He is my better half and has all the qualities that I lack which is why we fit each other so well.

Together we completed our family with first a boy, and then a girl. Two little people who everyone says look just like us. I couldn’t be more proud of them, of their personalities which shine and twinkle like the stars in a deep black clear summer night sky. Each night, as we read stories before bed and snuggle in close, and every morning, when I nuzzle their still-sleepy noses to wake up so we can start our day, I take time to breathe in their scents. It’s hard to believe that they’re mine. I will always be their mom. He will always be my son. She will always be my daughter. And I want them to always be proud of me.

My life is the reason why I keep fighting. My family, my friends, my heart. They all deserve to see me succeed.

Each day may be a new battle, but every one I win makes me stronger for the next fight. At the end of the day, when the sun is setting and I see the brilliance peeking out from behind a mess of clouds, I know I’m staring into my future.

And I’m nothing but enthusiastic for what lies ahead.

No regrets

Last week was pretty surreal. The outpouring of support from my friends and family surrounded me by way of emails, phone calls, text messages and blog comments. From 8:30am until 10pm. All the conversations about my decision to go public with my illness made my heart swell with gratitude. So much gratitude.

But there were two people who were quietly sitting back at home, taking it all in. Without saying a word.

Glued to my computer, watching the discussions take place in real time before my eyes, I longed for their approval in some shape or form. I waited for their number and picture to show up on my phone. The hours flew by and all of a sudden I looked at the clock and realized the day was over. The call never came.

Sometimes when someone is silent, their message comes across loud and clear.

I knew that my choice of words describing their reaction to my diagnosis might have hurt them. But that wasn't at all my intention. I only wanted to take my readers back to those moments when the shock of it all was still so raw for my family and I. After months of not seeing the light, the daze lifted to expose sheer exhaustion. We were all so worn out from the intense stress of trying to figure out what the hell was going on with me. So tired and drained - both physically and mentally - between the three of us we had cried so many tears that our eyes had nothing left to release, though we probably kept dabbing at them with wet tissues.

My mom and dad have a depth to their faith that I have yet to find. I admire that in them. I hope to some day reach that level of connection to God. They both prayed so hard during that year when we didn't know what else to do or where else to go to help me get well. The days crept by so slowly. Tears fell continuously. They had already spent most of their time researching doctors, medications, treatments, alternative medicine, research studies. Anything that could potentially bring me back from the dark hole I had dropped into. Anything that could fix me. A miracle seemed so out of reach and yet they kept on reaching, kept on praying. Praying and reaching for me because I had lost my will to reach myself.

Whether they know it or not, every night I thank God that they had the strength to keep on praying because their prayers were answered.

I probably could have used a better word than "mortified" when I described my perceptions of how they felt about my mental illness diagnosis. That wasn't fair. Fear and bewilderment probably would have been much better representations of their emotional state back then. They've wanted me to hold onto my anonymity because they worry about me the same way any parent worries about their child. I am an adult and I could have made the decision to blog openly about my illness a long time ago and I decided not to. But that changed recently. I've finally reached a point in my life where I don't want to look back and have any regrets. I don't want to wish I had done it earlier. I wasn't able to do it before now. I wasn't ready.

The fact is, parents will worry about their kids no matter what decisions they choose to make in life. That's just the nature of being a parent. So whether I made the choice to go public and become an advocate as I did this week, or I remained anonymous in my attempt to inspire other people living with bipolar disorder through my writing, my parents would have kept on worrying about me, either way. It's part of the job description when you're hired on as a parent: perpetual worry. Just comes with the territory.

I've only been a parent for less than five years, but with many more years ahead of me, I can only imagine how much harder it gets. Thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you for loving me unconditionally they way you both always have. Thank you for supporting me and for encouraging me to keep writing. And thank you for being there to listen. Even if you may not completely agree with my decision to take this leap.

I love you both so much.

My Time to Stand Up to Stigma

“I’m ready to not be anonymous anymore.” I said, tensing up slightly at the sound of my voice.

Even as that statement came out of my mouth two months ago at my Listen To Your Mother DC audition, I didn’t yet fully believe what I was saying. I still saw the faces of my parents in my head, grimacing at the reverberations of my words. I sensed a dark hook pulling me back into my closet of shame. It took a trip to the opposite coast for a long weekend at a writers’ retreat a few weeks later to demonstrate to me why I no longer need to hide.

I think the shame stems from my upbringing. In fact, I know it does. My family culture taught me that we don’t air our dirty laundry. That we should never appear vulnerable for fear of appearing weak.

When I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in the spring of 2006, my Mom and I took long walks around the townhouse community where my husband and I lived at the time. She led me in praying the rosary. I followed along, because at the time I had no idea what else to do. At the time we grasped at whatever made us feel better. Or she did, at least. I was pretty numb from all the meds I took. And so I just repeated the prayers, over and over again, like the good little Catholic daughter I appeared to be. What she wanted me to be. Not her daughter who just found out she has a mental illness.

In going through treatment and therapy, I hid mainly, curled up in my closet of shame. I felt embarrassed and ashamed that I had suffered two manic breaks, both of which hit me out of nowhere and forced me to spend almost a week in a psych ward to be brought back to reality. My hospitalizations were traumatic and harrowing, from the injections of anti-psychotics that I received, to the night I spent in the isolation room because I thought my roommate was a monster. I had no one to talk to about the torment it caused me. Only my closest three girlfriends knew that I had been grappling with a psychiatric illness. They were there for me, but only so much as they could be. So much went unsaid, for fear of feelings being hurt. My world had been rocked to the core, and my personality had crumbled in humiliation. Because of the sudden shock of it all, I experienced severe anxiety attacks and subsequently had to resign from a job which I loved and excelled at.

In the course of four months I had gone from the peak of my career as a rock-star recruiter, pulling in six figures at the tender age of twenty-six, to the darkest, most desolate time in my life. I felt so alone, despite the fact that my parents and husband were doing everything in their power to figure out what would get me well. They listened when I cried practically every day for nine months straight. My husband wrapped his strong loving arms around my frail body each and every night in bed so that I could turn off the racing thoughts and fall asleep to the sound of his steady heartbeat. I am forever grateful to them for staying positive and focusing on the end goal of getting me to see that it didn’t have to be this way. That life was worth living. Because I couldn’t see further than a step ahead of me back then.

We took things one day at a time in 2006, only consulting with our closest friends and family in the times when we needed extra help or advice. After several months of seeing and hearing me struggle with suicidal thoughts, my parents were desperate to find a doctor who could prescribe the right meds to bring their bubbly, confident, smart daughter back. She had all but disappeared and by this point they were ready to do anything to prevent me from taking my own life.

The thoughts of killing myself were only fleeting thoughts, bouncing in and out of my brain. My head was overflowing with chemicals from the drugs I was on, that I sometimes wondered if the thoughts were a product of my meds. The morbid curiosity I was struggling with made it tough for me to connect regular, day-to-day thoughts like, “I wonder what I should make for dinner tonight?” or “How many minutes do I want to sweat on the treadmill today?” In my messed up reality I felt like I didn’t have anything to live for anymore. A very selfish part of me thought my pain would magically disappear if I just swallowed a bottle of pills. It was as if I were trudging through thick, gooey mud in my depressed mind every day when all I longed for was the ability to return to normal.

By some miracle of God (or maybe my Mom’s rosary prayers were finally answered), my Dad was able to get me an appointment with the Chief of Psychiatry at the National Institute of Health in Bethesda, MD, near where I lived. That meeting, on a warm October evening the day before Halloween, was a night I’ll never forget.

Dr. Post explained why Lithium was a good choice for me and that I should be open to giving it a try. He listened to my fears and addressed all of my concerns. He even gave us his notes from that meeting. I cried hard as I confessed my extreme grief at not being able to have children because I’d be taking Lithium for the rest of my life. Dr. Post assured me that this simply wasn’t the case. I would just have to work closely with my doctors before, during, and after the pregnancy and I could even stay on my medication - in fact, he strongly recommended that I do - since the risk of birth defects while on Lithium is so low. The benefits of staying on medication during the pregnancy and after, foregoing breastfeeding, greatly outweighed the risks of not taking the meds.

Within three months on my new medication, I began to feel my old self emerging like cheery daffodils poking through the cold, wet spring soil. But instead of opening up and telling our friends and family how happy we were that I was starting to feel better, my Mom kept praying on those  beads, and mouths were kept shut. The whispers shared between the family regarding my health continued, even as I began to surrender to my desire to share my feelings of what it was like living with a mental illness. The writer in me just wanted to be able to talk openly about how I was working hard to get well. I wanted to show the world that I had been through hell and back and I turned out okay. In fact, I was better than okay. I was ready to start writing my story. I started my blog, Bipolar Mom Life, but was gently encouraged by my family to keep my identity a secret, so as not to jeopardize future employment opportunities or my relationships with our neighbors or people in the community. And so for nearly two years I remained a prisoner of my parent’s mortification over the illness, complete with hands in cuffs and duct tape over my lips.

It’s been seven years since I was handed my admission into the club of mental health consumers. We’ve had two healthy kids and I’ve had two more hospitalizations, both times because I put my babies’ health before mine. They are my world, along with their Daddy. It only took me seven years and a few months from my first manic episode to figure out that I’m going to be okay. That I don’t have to hide anymore. That if I can help just one person by sharing my story then it’s worth it.

I’m ready to not be anonymous anymore.

I want to show my kids that it’s important to stand up for what they believe in. If not, then why are we here? I believe that having a mental illness should never stand in the way of anyone’s dreams. I believe we need to educate the world about the various types of mental illnesses so that more friends and family, co-workers and teachers can reach out to those who need help so that they can get the care they need. I believe in standing up, showing up, and writing my way through living with a mental illness. It does not define me as a person; it’s just one aspect of my life which has helped shape me into the person I’ve turned out to be. And I’m pretty damn proud of her.

Yesterday I took off the anonymous mask, and emerged from my closet of shame. My voice, my words, my story - they deserve to be told with my real name.

My time to stand up to stigma is now.

Kicking Bipolar's Ass

"She is bipolar."

I cringe every time I hear these words, or see them typed out in print or online somewhere like I did today. You would never hear, "She is cancer." Instead, after someone is cured of cancer you hear, "She BEAT cancer."

That is so wonderful. I cheer along with everyone else when I read of someone's victorious fight with the devil that is cancer. If you think about it, mental illness should be looked at the same way. I don't want to be known as the woman who is bipolar and is married with two kids.

I didn't ask for this condition, this heartbreaking, terrifying, complicated illness, to hit me at the age of twenty-six when I was newly married and at the peak of my recruiting career.

And I am not my illness.

I am so much more than this condition I live with and manage each and every day.

I am a wife. A mother. A daughter. A sister. A granddaughter. A niece. A cousin. An aunt. A friend. An employee. A room mom. A church member.  A Sunday school teacher. A writer. A reader. A bubble bath-taker. A coffee lover. A vegetarian. A chocoholic. A fan of music. A dancer. A car singer.

You know, the type that knows every word to every song and loves to sing no matter how bad of a singer she is. Yeah. That's me.

I am the sum of all these beautiful, wonderful things.

I am NOT Bipolar.

I may have bipolar disorder, but it does not define me. I am defined by the people I surround myself with, the people who I love and who also love me for who I am. The ways I spend my time help to mold me into the person I am becoming.

And I'm pretty happy with her. Most of the time.

Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of growing and learning to do. But I do think that I can be proud of how far I've come.

I turned 34 last month. I recently commented to my best friends how it seems like a third of our lives is gone already. They both reminded me that we'd have to live to 102 for that to be the case. Hey, it's possible. But I guess they're right. More than a third is done. Lived. In the books. {or, on the blog.}

Sometimes I wonder where all that time went.

I'm not sure, but I do know that I want to be able to say, for the rest of whatever time I have left, that I beat bipolar disorder. That I was an inspiration to others still fighting. And that I did my best.

I think I'm doing a decent job so far.

What I learned from my Listen To Your Mother audition

You will try your best not to think about it so much, but in reality it's the only thing running through your mind since you sent in your email requesting an audition spot.

It will take weeks to choose a piece to read, then when you read it for your best friend, she chooses a different one for you.

When the Producer and Director say to bring 3 copies of your piece, the third one is for you. Bringing your own copy in large print made you look like an old grandmother who needs bifocals to read 12 pt font.

You'll practice your piece standing up, but when you get there the Producer and Director will be sitting on a couch since the audition is in a hotel room. There will be a chair waiting for you to sit and read. This will throw you off a little.

You'll decide five minutes after meeting them, that there is no doubt in your mind that you want to be a part of their show. It is more apparent to you now than ever.

You think you won't cry when you read. But you do. Just a little.

You'll feel confident going in but more unsure of yourself than ever as you walk out the door and get into your car to drive home. You'll wonder if they really liked you and your writing. Or were they just being polite?

The week after the audition will feel like the slowest week of your life. Especially since there is no school on Monday due to President's Day.

You will try your best to focus on the normal day-to-day tasks and activities of life after the audition, but really all you can think about is whether or not you made the cast.

Five days after the audition, when the email finally arrives in your inbox, you'll read it quickly. Because when it comes time to take the band-aid off, the faster you do it the less it will hurt.

You think you won't cry when you read the rejection email. But you do.

You'll wonder if you could have done something differently. Would it have changed their minds?

You'll long to hear "I'm so sorry, honey. I know how hard you worked on your piece and how badly you wanted this. It's okay." while he wraps his arms around you.

But instead, he'll say "It's not that big of a deal. It's just one audition. There will be other opportunities, honey." which will sting. And more tears will come.

You'll give the kids a bath and tuck them both in, reading more books than you usually do, because it's a distraction from the hurt.

You'll pull out your journal and you'll write until you feel better. Or at least until you stop crying.

You'll want to self-medicate with a big, expensive bar of dark chocolate and a glass or two of really good red wine but instead at that moment you'll realize you're the textbook definition of an emotional eater and so instead you'll choose to take a bubble bath.

In the end, you'll realize that this just may not be your time to "no longer be anonymous" and so you'll decide to keep your identity under wraps a little while longer.

You'll be flattered that both the Producer and Director email you to ask you to audition next year. And to not be a stranger.

And you'll think: maybe 2014 will be your year to share your story on stage.

You really hope so.

Congratulations to the 2013 Cast of Listen To Your Mother DC! I'm looking forward to another incredible show on April 28th. Last year I was inspired, this year I auditioned, and maybe next year will be my year.

About the show:

The mission of each LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER production is to take the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates mothering through giving voice to motherhood–in all of its complexity, diversity, and humor.

LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER aims to support motherhood creatively through artistic expression, and also financially–through contributions to non-profit organizations supporting families in need.

Living an inspiring life

Yes, that is a bowl full of pomegranate seeds. I scooped them out myself. And of course, when I finished de-seeding this lovely fruit, I took a picture. Because it took a good 20 minutes and I was proud of myself for getting every last seed out of the darn shell.

Your life is your message to the world. Make sure it's inspiring.

I believe this to be true and I so want to heed this advice.

I registered for my second writer's conference this morning - a memoir writer's retreat - in March of 2013. I want to make my dreams of sharing my story a reality and I'm taking concrete steps towards my goal of publishing my memoir. I want to be an inspiration to other young women living with bipolar disorder who are wondering if they'll ever be able to have kids. I'm living proof that it is possible.

Now, let's be real here. I'm not perfect. I most certainly have my moments. Those times when I'm overtired, stressed out from a work deadline, and the kids are arguing over a toy - those are the times when I need help. And I've learned when to ask for it and how to not feel guilty about needing a little time to myself in order to re-charge my batteries. It helps me tremendously and then when I jump back into the action I am that much more prepared to handle anything.

Just like a pomegranate is a tough fruit to de-seed, I think I'm a pretty complicated individual. And yet, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I'm the type of person who would share my life story with someone I just met, if they wanted to listen. I love meeting new people and making connections; I feel like that is such a huge part of what life is all about. I believe everyone on this Earth has something to share. Me? I want to share my story of how mental illness crept up on me and emerged out of nowhere, shocking the living daylights out of me, my husband, my parents, our siblings and our friends. How I rode a roller coaster of emotions for a year and a half before finally becoming stable and healthy again, only to be thrown on the same haunting ride of my past, landing in the hospital twice more, yet emerging a stronger, more determined and driven version of myself than I was before.

I've decided that I'm going to start carving time out of my schedule to write. An hour a day is what I'm going to start with. Whether it be a blog post, a journal entry, a chapter of my book, or time spent reading other memoirs, I'm writing down goals so that I can measure my progress. I learned a ton in Sanibel (and met a bunch of really extraordinary people) which I want to apply to my writing in order to improve and grow as a writer. Beginning in January I am going to set new goals, specific to my book project, so that I can truly hold myself accountable and make progress every day.

I can feel my dreams moving closer within my reach. Because if I write words, they turn into sentences; if I write sentences, they turn into paragraphs; if I write paragraphs, they turn into pages; if I write pages they will eventually turn into my book. Just like it took patience and determination to empty the pomegranate of its seeds (have you ever tried to open one of those darn things?? Talk about the fruits of your labor. Sheesh.), I will eventually get all of my thoughts out on paper in a concise, engaging story which will hopefully help to end stigma and educate not only young women living with bipolar disorder, but also their families, friends, doctors, and therapists. Just because someone is living with a mental illness, it doesn't mean they cannot enjoy the good life.

I love my life. I feel incredibly blessed. So glad that Thanksgiving is right around the corner because I have so much to be thankful for.

Just a few thoughts on stigma

{From wikipedia} Social stigma: a severe social disapproval of personal characteristics or beliefs that are against cultural norms.

Sometimes I wonder if other moms would think differently of me if they knew I was living with a Bipolar Disorder diagnosis.

I read a brief article online last night about a woman writer who is Bipolar, but she strongly advises people who have the same condition to not reveal their true identity online for fear of being looked down upon by their employers, discriminated against, and ignored - simply because they are living with a mental illness.

As much as it saddens me to do so, I guess I would have to agree with her. Just makes me so frustrated to read those words, and know that so many people probably think and feel just as she describes.

I also get upset when I see so much - I mean so much - support online for women who have suffered Postpartum Depression, but not nearly any support for people like me whose moods tend to lean more heavily on the complete opposite end of the happy/sad spectrum. (Please, please don't get me wrong - I think it is incredible that there are so many resources out there for women dealing with PPD and so many amazing women willing to share their stories in order for others to see the light at the end of the tunnel.)

I guess I'm just a bit sad that A) there isn't nearly as much awareness for PPP than there is for PPD and B) there is such a negative connotation about the diagnosis "bipolar disorder" in general. Makes me really scared to ever reveal myself to anyone other than my family and my closest friends.

One of the biggest things I've been turning over and over in my head lately is that I didn't ask to be diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. It's just like someone being diagnosed with a brain tumor or breast cancer. They didn't ask for it to happen to them. It just did. And now it's their life and they have to learn to live with it.

And people who are diagnosed with brain tumors or breast cancer sometimes start campaigns to raise awareness about their conditions and they do fundraisers to donate money to organizations fighting for cures for their diseases.

But if I tried to do that - even just the awareness part - I could be ostracized and looked down upon, and maybe would never be hired to work in my previous profession again.

How is that fair???

That's all for now. Yawning non-stop here and need to hit the sack. I guess I'll sleep on it.

Checking in with the doc & Kony 2012

Had a checkup with my psychiatrist today. I brought the kids with me since it's only a 30 minute appointment and it was right at 12pm, so I fed them before we left and brought the ipad to try to keep them occupied. She brought in a few toys for my little man to play with and my daughter sat in the stroller happily tapping away at the ipad. A tiny bit distracting, but nothing a mom of two toddlers isn't used to. I like how my doctor asks about my writing. She knows it is important to me and she supports my voice. My last psychiatrist didn't read my book draft since I became emotional during the one appointment when I told her about it, handing her the draft to read. She told me at the next visit that she hadn't read it since I became so upset. The fact that she didn't read it (or so she said) made me sad. I was handing her a glimpse into my thoughts, feelings, and emotions having lived with bipolar disorder and she turned around and told me what felt like "you're not worth my time outside of paid appointments."

I would have stopped seeing her, but didn't really have a choice since insurance was covering my visits at almost 90%. So I stuck with her until our insurance changed and I was forced to find a new doctor. I was lucky enough to find a very good one whose office is only 5 minutes from our house.

We talked about my mood during today's visit and I admitted I've had some hypomanic periods over the past two months, but they are manageable. I always have a good sense of awareness about my moods and when I feel an elevated period, I know that I need to get more sleep and nap when the kids nap. I take Ambien if my mind is still buzzing when I know it's bedtime. I'm also fortunate in that my husband stays on top of things too and encourages me to get rest when he knows I need it. We work as a team to keep me healthy and I like that.

My doctor and I discussed the recent news of the Kony 2012 movement and how Jason Russell, the filmmaker who was the voice of the campaign, was recently hospitalized in California under a 5150 psychiatric hold. He was trying to raise awareness about a horrible war that was going on which most Americans probably knew absolutely nothing about until news of the viral video his organization created hit the evening news. When I first watched the video two weeks ago, I'll be the first to admit, I was kindof shocked by the message of "Making Joseph Kony famous". But then it hit me. What better way to slap the world in the face to get them to realize how much shear devastation this one person has caused to so many innocent children? The campaign had a call to action too. They want to get the word out to have Kony arrested and put to justice. By the end of the 30-minute video I was a follower. I even shared it on my Facebook wall, encouraging my friends to watch it.

And then the story broke on Friday about Jason's detainment by police after he was found naked on the streets shouting obscenities and pounding the pavement with his hands. The first thing I did was remove the share post of the Invisible Children Kony 2012 campaign from my Facebook wall.

How incredibly narrow-minded and judgmental of me to act in such haste. I immediately didn't want to be associated with the guy just because he had suffered a public mental breakdown? Wow. Talk about needing to have an introspective weekend.

All I could do was think back, all weekend long, about how his story has some similar characteristics to my own. Not nearly on the same scale, of course, but in small part, similar. At the time of my first psychotic episode, I was under a great deal of stress from my career and the goals management had set for me in the coming year, in addition to being in the midst of an emotional affair with a co-worker and mid-way through building a brand new single-family house with my husband. Talk about having a lot on my plate.

I feel so blessed to have had the support I did when I went through that most trying time of my life (and theirs, I'm sure.) My husband did not abandon me, my parents and in-laws wrapped their arms around me in support, and my closest friends were there to listen to what I was going through whenever I needed to talk. I was so lucky that I didn't have to suffer in the public eye like Jason is right now.

I'm sure there were things said behind my back by people wondering what the heck was going on with me. But I didn't have to read about it online or hear about it on the news like his friends and family are doing right now. I pray that they don't read or hear the negative words being thrown about on the Internet and news talk shows, and that if they do, that it only strengthens their defense for him and their efforts to help him get well. I'm praying for him. He's done so much good work. He does not deserve all the hate. Not one bit of it.

I am not proud of my initial reaction to what happened to him. I wanted to write about it here to help teach myself, someone who suffers from a mental illness which caused four psychiatric hospital stays, not to turn my back on someone because they are going through a trying time. Let this be a learning experience to myself and the other 83 million people who watched the video. Don't turn away because I believe that some people come into our lives as blessings, and others come into our lives as lessons.