mental health, Uncategorized

A Day With Bipolar ll


Like all mornings, yesterday’s was great. I woke up to my man making me a pot of coffee, I made sure he got to work, and I came home and watched the sunrise. I was feeling pretty good. I had the whole day ahead of me and I would accomplish everything I set out to do, or so I thought. 

See, right now I’m in a hypomania episode. My days start out strong with lots of hope and ambition. I’m ready to conquer the world. And coffee helps. 

I actually went and got ready for the day. Saying that at 9am I would “go to work.” And by that I meant, I would start learning how to better run my blog. I did find the resources I need, but I did no studying. I couldn’t focus. I drew a little bit, working on a new art project. 


Here’s a little glimpse at just the beginning of it. I read in the book I’m currently reading that it helps to make your illness not apart of you, but something outside of you. And then, to make monsters beautiful. So, here’s my version of what that means. 

I often don’t like explaining my art, I’d rather it mean what it’s meant to to the viewer. But, I’ll explain this piece. The hand that’s outstretched, that’s me. The shading is a bit off, though. And the hand around my wrist? Well, that’s my Bipolar/Anxiety/PTSD. Got a good grip on me in that drawing. 


I couldn’t sit still much longer, so I decided to go to Target. Oops. I also put in a fake nose piercing to make myself feel a bit more badass. Little things like that can help your mood. 


It’s a successful Target trip when I buy only 4 things and regret only 1. But, I’m starting to regret that one a little less now. I bought a journal, writing in it yesterday didn’t seem like it’d be something I could do daily. But today, with a purpose I wrote. This is a journal I plan to one day give my child. If they struggle with the same mental health issues, then I hope it will bring them peace. If not, then I hope they enjoy getting to know who I am. And how their story began. 


It wasn’t long after my Target trip that my mood began to deteriorate. I can’t remember if I took my medication for the afternoon, but judging solely by my mood, I’d say I forgot. It got bad, I began to feel stuck, to feel worthless. The haunting of not working was strong. The feeling of not accomplishing anything was great. I took a moment to lie in bed. It’s like my makeup instantly knows when I begin to feel worse, it begins to look worse. At least I have my emotional support dog by my side. 


I attempted to go back outside and work through the pain the illness was causing me. I say the illness now, because I’m working on viewing it as something outside of me, not apart of me. It is not me. Not at all. 

In this photo, I had started crying. I had started to wonder, “why me?” I had began to feel sorry for myself, worthless, hopeless. Nothing I could do would save me, I tried doing things I was supposed to do, they didn’t help. 


Quickly, I found myself laying on the sofa in tears. My dog, laying on my shoulder to help me calm down. But my breathing grew shorter, my heart raced faster. It was an anxiety attack that had been wanting to come out for weeks. I could feel it under my skin, I tried to let it out. 

I cried, I hyperventilated, I tried to let this attack take over. I may not like it, but I needed it. I needed to release the emotions in a physical way. I just needed to. And I feel so much better after allowing myself to panic. However, this brought a consequence. 


As my arm started shaking, moving back and forth, it attached itself to my arm. There was already a scar there from months ago when I last scratched myself. Now, there will be another. I didn’t realize I had started, and by the time I did I couldnt get myself to stop. It’s not physically as bad as the one before it, but it does hurt all the same. It allowed me to release all my emotions, yet I know it wasn’t the healthy choice to do so in that way. 

I’m okay today, I have an appointment with my psychiatrist on Thursday and will be open and honest because obviously, my antipsychotics must not be working properly. They are supposed to stabilize my mood, and that is definitely not happening at the moment. 


I was exhausted after my attack. I was ashamed and disappointed. I called my friend and ended up going to visit her and her family to get out of the house. It helped quite a lot. She’s always there for me when I need her. 

Today, I’ve decided I will have a good day. 

-Liz

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