Being Different. With a capital D.

I decided to start this blog to chronicle what it’s like to be bi-polar, and to also be a parent. So, here goes:
Even as a kid, I had always been moody and weird. What a great way to sum up my childhood, right? When I was about 13, my parents decided enough was enough and took me to a doctor to try to figure out what the hell was wrong with me. The doc put me on the great American standby; Prozac. I went to school the next day, and told a friend about it. Her respond was, “Thank God.” At the time, I was furious with her. What was so wrong with me, that my friends were thanking baby Jesus that I was finally being medicated? As an adult, I understand. No one really knew what to expect of me day by day. There were days when I would skip school, (sorry Mom) just so I could sleep for another eight hours. And then there were weeks at a time when I wouldn’t sleep at all; too excited about the next day and what might possibly happen. I went on like this for several years. Sometimes I would take my medicine, more often than not, I wouldn’t. Oh yeah, I was also a cutter. Many nights, you would find me in my room, or in my bathroom, cutting my skin into intricate patterns, just for the hell of it. I continued this well into my college days, and even for a year or so after I was married. When I had my daughter, I thought my life was going to be bliss.

What. A. Joke.

I hated motherhood. I cried. All the time. I was terrified when my husband would leave for work, and so keyed up and anxious by the time he got home I would bolt out the door, screaming, “I HAVE ERRANDS TO RUN,” as soon as he stepped out of his car. One night, after countless hours of typical newborn crying, rocking, feeding, changing; I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I went off. Throwing things, yelling profanities at my husband and my infant. I was so angry at my life, I stood in the kitchen sobbing, with a bottle of pills in my hand. Knock on the door. My spouse had called my mother! Ultimate betrayal! I screamed some more at the both of them. I was a grown ass woman, for God’s sake! I didn’t need my mommy to step in and save me! She didn’t leave until I had made an appointment with a psychiatrist. I was humiliated and defeated. I slept for days after that episode. I didn’t want to show my face to anyone, especially not my family. I called in sick to work, I faked migraines and stomach aches. Anything to be able to lay in my bed and try to sleep through the drone in my brain. I don’t know how I was convinced to attend my appointment. But I did, and my life changed.

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