Diagnosis : Disaster

For the past almost year I have avoided my psychiatrist. In the months after my wedding I spiraled out of control, hurting everyone I could purposely or unintentionally. I left miles of burnt bridges in my wake, knowing all the while in the back of my mind that being alone would make my final task easier. I was going to die. 

I finished the summer barely holding on to the tiny bit of sanity I had left, leaving a long trail of destruction behind me. Moments of clarity lead to intense self-loathing, and I dreaded the silence I normally craved. I punished myself for my shortcomings by destroying the relationships that mattered most to me, and in a final act of inner hatred, I consumed ten days worth of medication. 

Spoiler alert: I survived. 

Unfortunately, the attempt on my life did not provoke me to seek professional help. I went to my local walk-in, told the doctor that I lost my meds while on holiday, and carried on hating myself. I pressed on, facing each day with a heavy heart and a crazy brain. If I’m not supposed to die, what am I supposed to do? I’ve lost almost everything I had. My kids and my husband deserve better. Could I run? Leave them to give them a fresh start, and throw myself off of something that I surely could not survive? 

After thoroughly researching and considering my options, I got a message from my nephew. He told me about his girlfriend, and about university, and in they conversation he sent a message that changed my entire outlook on my life. 

This message. This one message had a profound affect on me, and is responsible for saving my life. 

I contacted USTAT and told the receptionist that I required immediate attention, and she got me in to see my doctor in the same week. What I learned at that appointment, I really wasn’t expecting. During the course of our conversation I learned that almost a year ago, he determined that my diagnosis was wrong, and that my treatment needed to be  changed. After dozens of attempts to reach me, he was forced to set my file on the back burner, and hope that I would either come back or had sought treatment somewhere else. 

I was misdiagnosed, and treated for, bipolar disorder. I  know now that this was incorrect. (I was also diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, which is correct). I have now been rediagnosed with Disassociative Disorder, along with BPD and major depressive disorder. What this means, is that for more than a year, I was essentially treating myself for a disease I do not have, taking medication that was not correct, to the point that it was harming me mentally, which inevitably lead to harming myself physically. 

So what is Disassociative Disorder?

“Dissociative disorders (DD) are conditions that involve disruptions or breakdowns of memory, awareness, identity, or perception. People with dissociative disorders use dissociation, a defense mechanism, pathologically and involuntarily. Dissociative disorders are thought to primarily be caused by psychological trauma.”

I fall into the Depersonalization Disorder camp, and I have to say, as messed up as it sounds, I fit the bill perfectly. I’m not treatment résistent bipolar, I have DD; and after learning that, so much of my life makes sense. I cannot excuse my actions or behaviours, but I can finally start learning why I do the things I do, and more importantly, how to prevent these behaviours from occurring in the future. My medication regiment has been altered to fit this new diagnosis, and I am enrolled in Dialectal Behavioural Therapy (DBT). Three counselling sessions a week (until my program starts), journalling, and positive daily affirmations are helping me on the path to recovery. 

Not seeing my doctor was an intrepidly ignorant and dangerous choice that I made for far too long. I cannot treat myself, and I was naive to think that self care was as easy as having a prescription filled every two weeks.

The people whom I have hurt may not choose to forgive me, and that is something that I will have to learn to accept. I cannot change the minds of others, but I hope that, regardless of if they choose to stay with me or not, that they will see that I am once again putting in the effort to help myself, so that I may be better for my family. I already am feeling the effects of my new medication, and for the first time potentially ever, I recognise the wrongs I have committed, and feel immense guilt. It’s not a feeling I’m used to, but it’s part of my recovery, and I accept it.

I am not better. Far from it. But I will get there this time, because I truly want to. I want to be the woman my sweet nephew thinks I am, and I think I can be. No more self treating, no more ignorance, no more blame, no more hate.

To my nephew : I owe you my life, and I love you more than anything. We will succeed together.

To my sister : Out of everyone I’ve mistreated, I’ve treated you the worst. I don’t know how to properly apologise, because you deserve more than just words. I hope that my behaviour from now on helps to heal the gash I cut between us. I love you. That is my  constant. That has never, and will never change.

To my husband : Thank you for not packing up and leaving after you saw the pills I took. Thank you for standing unwavering in my corner. Thank you for loving me through all of the days that I can’t love myself. I life you.

Empathy from the Devil

I am vexed and perplexed, confused and unsure. I am an emotional enigma, and not even I can crack the code. I have been called narcissistic and sociopathic by more than one doctor (and several layman’s), and I have felt and identified with these diagnoses at certain points in my life. I am treatment-resistent bipolar, prone to spending sprees, delusions of grandeur, and thoughts of suicide. As if that wasn’t enough, I was have been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, the cherry on the psychotic sundae. 

I am also an empath. 

Wait….what?

How can I be a sociopathic narcissist and an empath at the same time? It doesn’t make sense, does it? 

I feel. I feel so deeply that the weight of my emotional load is crushing. I never tune out or turn off, while I’m supposed to be sleeping I’m reliving everything that’s ever happened to me, in vivid detail. Do you remember the time you told me that my makeup didn’t look good? No? I do. My mind is a highlight reel of everything that helps me to hate myself. Perhaps you were the one who told me my thighs are too thick for corduroy. Don’t remember? I can fill you in. 

I am not a doctor, but I would like to amend my original diagnosis – I am a hedonist. Yes, I have narcissistic tendencies, I have long periods of introspective self-involvement, although what I see as quiet regrouping others see as pathetic lagubriousness. If I’m not feeling as though I’m conquering the world, I am desperately maudlin. There isn’t an in between. That doesn’t mean that I’m a narcissist. In fact, most times I find myself to be quite the opposite! I will do anything for anyone…once. Dick me around and i’ll wash my hands of you. At least on the outside. I don’t have the ability to forget. Once you stick your knife in, it stays put. You move on, I do not. That’s the empath part. 

So how is it that I identify with all of these traits? Honestly, I  have no fucking clue. But if you have any insights, please feel free to share!

I cut apart my favourite book today. That act is what spawned this post. I felt more emotion about tearing pages out of a book than I do about most people. I relieved it of its loquaciousness with good reason; to make a book bouquet for my sisters wedding. My poor book is missing the first two chapters, stained with tea, folded and dilapidated. It still hurt to take my scissors to it. I painstakingly sought out my favourite passages and cut the delicate pages away from the spine. In rereading these snippets I found myself overcome with emotion. I know every inch of each character, and can imagine how they look, how they smell, but they can never know me. What a beautifully tragic relationship to have! To know everything without revealing anything. I love these characters because they hold pieces of me that I can’t let others see. They live inside of me, never changing, always existing exactly as I need them to. The only relationship I’m good at maintaining…

But I digress. 

What was my point? 

That if I can’t define myself, how can I ask anyone else to. 

Perhaps that was it. 

Cognitive Dissonance

I’ve had to make a decision recently, about a problem that has been bothering me for quite some time. I had been waiting for a moment of clarity, a sign perhaps, to guide me in the right direction. However I have now determined that waiting for some cosmic being to tell me what to do would leave me waiting forever. I had to put on my big girl pants and make a hard decision, and hope that it was the right one. 

I am no longer willing to nurture relationships that are not healthy for all parties involved. I cannot journey healthily into the future if I am still clinging to parts of my past. No more “friends” on facebook that I don’t communicate with. No more hate-stalking, no more waiting for someone I cared for to reach out to me. I have evolved, and my evolution is bound to leave some things and people in the dust. That is not to say that I don’t care about these people or things, I will always wonder about them, but  what I’ve had to give up is wondering why they get along so well without me. I’ve spent too long on the outside of people’s lives, looking in, and feeling a sad disconnect based on the relationship we used to have. My love is always constant, and I’m learning that it is an unrealistic expectation to think that everyone operates on the same emotional plane as me. As much as I try not to be, I  am an empath. I don’t want to feel as much as I do, but it is beyond my control. This amplified feeling of rejection and loss has led to an unhealthy obsession with trying to find out where I’ve gone wrong. What have I done to drive a wedge between myself and this person that I once connected so strongly with? I must’ve done something, because I am defective. Trying to find all of my faults and flaws within each relationship has been taxing both emotionally and physically, but I needed that introspection to determine what I now know: people grow apart, and it’s not (always) anyone’s fault. It’s time to stop focusing on what I could’ve done better, and refocus on taking care of the relationships I currently have, while occasionally remembering the good times and experiences that came from the old ones. 

I no longer have the energy to chase people down, and I will not beg anyone to keep in touch – family or otherwise. I will no longer wonder how to make you like me more, it’s not my job to please anyone, nor is it OK to try to change myself based on who others want me to be. I am me, and I am enough. I am legitimately happy for everyone, past and present, that is living a happy and fulfilling life. If ever our paths cross again I will greet you warmly, as I always have, but I will no longer wait and wonder. I’m ready to let go of my past to prepare for my future. My future involves focusing on the good, fostering love and mutual respect, and finding a state that I have yet to function in – a state of being content with who I am, and with what I have. 

This is not a new years resolution, it is a promise to myself and to my loved ones that I will make a conscious effort to let go of the things I cannot control, and to look to the future with hope and positivity. It’s time to step out from behind the shadow of my past and allow the light to guide me in a healthy direction. 

I love all of you. You past demons, you present angels. I am a product of everyone and everything I’ve ever loved and cared about. I am grateful for who I have become. I am ready to move forward. 

The downside of happiness

On December 1st, our eleventh anniversary, my husband and I finally got married, surrounded by friends and family. The day was everything we wanted, and was a beautiful recognition and celebration of how far we have come together. 

In the months leading up to the wedding I was in peak condition. Big Daddy was sailing, and I was planning. I made a lot of things myself, including decorations, the bridal party’s shoes, the cake, the ring box. I worked alongside the caterer to create the perfect menu, helped the commisioner create a ceremony that best reflected our personalities, booked hair and makeup appointments, made all of the wedding favours. I felt a sense of purpose that I don’t feel very often. I was creating something, and it felt good to be the driving force behind something that meant so much to me. 

 The day was a huge success, and it meant so much to us that so many people put in the effort to be with us. 

   
 My bouquet 
   
 Our cake
  Mashed potato bar!!

  One of the favours 

  Ring box

   
  
  Happiness 

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With all of the excitement over and all of our guests gone, I am at a loss for what to do with myself. I was so busy with wedding prep that I couldn’t feel the sting of my depression in the background. It never left me, but waited patiently in the shadows for the perfect time to re-envelop me once again in its cold cloak. I wasn’t expecting it for once. I was legitimately very happy, and proud of what I was accomplishing. The weight of depression has crushed me. I can’t stay awake, I’m cold, my head hurts. I have so much to do in my every day life, but lack the energy and the focus to complete anything. I have gained 10 pounds from irregular eating and poor food choices. I’ve picked my face and arms raw. My brain and my body are no longer lining up, like a poorly dubbed kung fu movie. I watch my life happening around me, but cannot participate. I can see that I am no longer thriving, and the judgement from my mind increases, and the cycle repeats. I don’t want to be an illness, but if not that, what am I? 

I literally cannot focus enough to finish this post. 

Shady’s back

I’m back, bitches!

New name, new social media handles, same brand of crazy. 

I got married this month! 

My sister got engaged this month!

(So far) I’m happy this month!

Generally being emotional is what compels me to write, however, I’ve determined that happiness is a hindrance to my written endeavours. I normally identify as indifferently content, but lately I have been genuinely happy. I think. Maybe I’m not the textbook definition of happiness, but it’s my own brand, and I’m comfortable with it. 

Happiness can be terrifying to Eeyore’s like me. We’re so sure that there’s a storm cloud looming over our parade – we can’t properly enjoy what is going on around us. So positive are we that we will do something unworthy of this happiness that we retreat into the dark caverns of our minds to punish ourselves for ever thinking that we deserve better than what we normally allow ourselves. 

This month, I have felt happiness without guilt. I felt beautiful, loved, and deserving. If this is the only 31 days in my life that I feel this gloriously happy, I will be OK with that. I will be OK because I’ll know that, on some level, I am capable of joy, and I have been lucky enough to experience it. 

Reflective Fragments

The first time someone called me delusional I was seventeen. The librarian called said that I must be delusional because she was positive that I hadn’t returned a book that I was positive I had. 
The first time I questioned my mental health, truly, I was sixteen, and was largely rebuffed by the professional I confided in. I was lazy, ungrateful, ambitionless, and angsty. Get out of bed, brush your hair, show up to class on time. You’ll feel better. You have so much potential. 
The first time I wanted to die I was fifteen. I had a panic attack over having to tell my mother that I had failed math again. I had myself in such a lather that I began cleaning out my closet, and I had every intention of hanging myself in it with a belt. A pink belt with green stars that I bought at Forever 21, the only souvenir from my school band trip that I could afford. My mother called and asked me to do the dishes before she got home. I missed my window. That feeling of wanting to end would simmer in the recesses of my mind, bubbling over at different times later in life. 

The first love of my life came at fifteen, and has remained my only love. He nurtures the good parts of me, and forgives the bad. I owe him my life. 
The first novel I remember reading was Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls. My dog was my best friend, and the book helped put my emotions into words. It also destroyed me emotionally for a few weeks after finishing it. Being able to read independently (i was in the third grade) offered a method of escape that would save my life more than once as I got older. 
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On the foggiest days I can reach out and touch the ragged fabric with which my reality is created. It’s frayed edges like worn burlap glide through my fingers as I struggle to grasp something tangible. As the mist coats the flora in the early morning, so does my fragmented reality coat my mind. My thirst for normalcy never quite sated from such a thin layer of moisture. 

When the wind picks up I am carried into the lives of others. Today I’m a parent volunteering at the school. When the wind changes I am an acquaintance in a tattoo shop, a fraud in a bookstore, a friend via text. I can never commit enough energy or attention to any one person or thing for too long. Lights flash in front of my eyes, I want to entertain all of them but instead cannot focus on even one. 
I feel so many things, yet I am paralysed by the thought of expressing them. Truly feeling them. It would be more apt to say that I think about feelings. If I start allowing myself to feel, I won’t be able to stop. I am an emotional implosion waiting to happen. The only thing I feel is fear. 

Fear of loss. Fear of change. Fear of success. Fear of self confidence. Fear of finding out who I really am. Fear of failure. Fear of faith. 
I couldn’t tell you who I am if I had all of the words in the world. I am a collection of grand ideas, half-truths, fears, and open wounds. The embodiment of an overactive imagination. I am an actual metaphor. Or is it a simile? I could never keep them straight. 

Wave of Mutilation

I have always considered self-harm to be out of my realm of possibility. I don’t cut myself, I don’t cut my hair when I’m feeling depressed, and i’ve never removed one of my eyebrows. I’ve never given the topic of self-harm much thought, honestly, until the other day, when I was having a particularly stressful conversation with my husband. We were outside talking, and he asked me repeatedly to stop picking. I have been picking at my skin for years. My arms, my shoulders, my neck, my face. Most of the time I don’t even recognize that I’m doing it. I absent mindedly scratch away at my skin until I draw blood. I have deep scars, especially on my arms. Sometimes it takes months to heal, because I keep pulling the skin off to create a fresh wound. He told me that I do it to relieve stress, but that it causes me more stress in the long run, because having a face with bullet sized holes in it starts the cycle all over again. 

I have been thinking a lot about why I do this, and i’ve come up with a few ideas. 

Stress relief. When I’m frustrated, upset, anxious, I scratch away until I’m feeling better. Although as my husband mentioned, the craters in my skin cause more stress when I look at them, which results in me scratching more. 

It feels good. It’s a release of tension. I don’t know that I can accurately describe it, but I can feel areas of my body that feel like they’re going to explode. When I break the skin it literally feels like a release of pressure. 

It keeps me from feeling good about myself. There are a lot of times when I don’t feel like I deserve to feel good about myself. When things in my life are headed in a positive direction, I dig in to remind myself that I don’t deserve happiness. I don’t deserve someone telling me I look pretty. I feel ugly on the inside, so I subconsciously make myself ugly on the outside to match. At times my ego seems grandiose, I am skilled at portraying myself as someone who is overconfident, secure in their own skin, someone who can’t be bothered with what anyone else thinks. On the inside I am none of tthos things. I am riddled with self doubt, I hate my appearance, and the things people say and do affect me deeply. I think now that exposing the raw layers of my skin is a way to expose who I really am on the inside. I don’t think it’s working. I’m literally peeling the mask off that force myself to wear everyday. 

Self-harm can be so many things and manifest in myriad ways. It’s meaning is personal, and everyone is different. The important thing is to recognize what it is to you, and find your way out. I am in the realization stage. As I’ve been writing this I’ve been clawing at my face. I don’t yet have a plan to overcome this, but I thought writing about it may help sort some things out. 

   
  I don’t have acne. I never have.  
Have you made it to the other side of self-harm? Leave me a comment and tell me your healthy way of coping with the urge to hurt yourself. 

Affairs of the Mind

With suicide prevention in the news, I thought given my somewhat intimate knowledge of the subject, I would throw my two cents in. While I believe in talking openly about suicide, I do not, necessarily, believe that it can be prevented. In my  experience, if a person is in the mindset that they need to take their own life, they will make that attempt regardless of how many people try to intervene. For those who have attempted to die, many will say that they needed that experience, for many different reasons. 

I will speak only on my own behalf; each person’s experience is as intricate and unique as a snowflake. For me, my attempts on my own life came at various stages. After the murder of a  friend, after attempting to seek help for mental illness was rebuffed as ‘in my head’, after a quiet but tumultuous battle with PTSD, all very different situations that resulted in the same self-loathing, shame, disgust, rage, and confusion. Each attempt I made was in earnest; I didn’t want to survive and receive treatment, I wanted to throw in the towel. Tired of fighting, battle worn, I needed sleep. I needed to sleep. 

No one could’ve prevented what my body was telling me to do. So how, as bystanders, care givers, do we help those afflicted by suicides disease?

Here are my suggestions, based on what I did and didn’t receive during the aftermath of my attempts. 

The person who wakes up from a failed suicide attempt is not the same person who made the attempt. It is naive to think that your loved one will emerge with a new zest for life, ready to take on the world with a new appreciation for all of the sights and sounds that the world has to offer. Shame, anger, regret, frustration, more anger: that is what is felt when you realise that after your best efforts to end the terrors in your life were not successful. The hate that consumes you cannot be abated with get well cards, flowers, or whispered conversations between family and medical staff. You don’t need to understand, but a little bit of empathy can go a long way. 

Make freezer meals. 

Bring books. 

Make horribly inappropriate jokes. 

Stand up against anyone who plans to lecture or belittle the fragile psyche of your almost departed loved one. 

In a shitty situation, Nibs always help make things better. 

In short, be who you’ve always been. No one is made of porcelain (except perhaps Tilda Swinton). Being handled with kid gloves only accentuates the above mentioned feelings of shame, guilt, anger, etc. Yes, things are different, your loved one has changed, but by offering a steady hand you are providing an incredible feeling of unity and support. As survivors we know that nothing about our situation is easy for anyone. We know the fear, the anger, the burning desire to grab us by the shoulders and shake us; we feel these things too – amplified exponentially by the demons inside of us that got us to the point of suicide in the first place. 

I’ve said it before, and I will say it until I’m blue in the face, suicide is a disease. The only cure is death. No matter how many good days we have, suicide is always lurking, waiting for a vulnerable moment to hit us from behind. Remember this:

Suicide. Is. Disease. 

Suicide. Is. Disease. 

Find the balance between constant vigilance and being over bearing. That’s where we need you. Always be on the lookout for ‘signs’, but don’t make us feel guilty. The bomb is ticking, but no one knows when the clock will stop. Remember this:

We love you. 

We aren’t punishing anyone. 

You can’t prevent something that has been preordained. 

Your patience means more than you know. 

We will work on prevention, we need you to work on acceptance. 

Suicide is disease. It cannot always be prevented. Like a cancer it can be aggressive, all consuming. Some strains have cures, some are fatal. In the end, making those afflicted feel normal, valued, unashamed, wanted, needed, those are the things that will make the periods of remission better for all parties involved. 

Death Song

What does suicide sound like?

Suicide is different for every person who attempts it. Unfortunately for the living, we can not ask questions of the dead. We can however, question the survivors. I am a survivor. I have made several attempts on my life, and although I’m not proud of it, I will not shy away from talking about it. My vow of transparency about mental illness has no conditions, and I will not hide the less than glamourous parts.

An attempt on your life starts well before you even acknowledge your want to die consciously. Your thoughts change slowly, the taste of the things that you love gently fade. The retreat into the vast darkness of your mind is generally an even descent, with sadness and desperation compounding hourly. The poison floods your veins like ink in water, and soon, you hear the sounds of suicide.

Everyone’s experience is different, and I encourage who is ready to share their story. Mine continues…

A slight ringing in my ears, just loud enough that I feel irritated. The constant drone of my inner monologue, highlighting every painful event, every negative feeling, running like a nonstop ticker tape behind the rest of my thoughts. It is background noise, but when things go quiet, the sounds become more clear. The music I love becomes muted when I listen to it, the voices of my loved ones sound far away. The monologue gets louder, its hurtful thoughts getting nastier, more aggressive. It whispers to me while I read, while I do the dishes. 

You’re worthless. You’re a burden to your loved ones. You will never get your life together. Everyone is tired of you being sick. If you love them, you’ll leave. 

 After weeks, months, years, of the sybiote wearing you down, there is no longer any light to fight it with. The fire in your soul is now ashes, ashes that make it hard to breathe, hard to see. As you try to fight your way through the cloud of ashes the demons within blow it in your face, and your soul is scattered into pieces that you think can never be put back togeher. This is when the biggest change happens: you believe your monstrous ticker tape. The fog clears for the first time in ages, and you are thinking more clearly than ever before. I AM a burden. My loved ones deserve better. This is the ultimate sacrifice I can make for them. Free them from the shackles I have placed them in. 

The ringing in your ears stops, you can no longer hear your own heartbeat. You are finally filled with the calm that you have been craving. 

What does surviving sound like?

Waking up is knives in your head, sirens blaring in surround sound. Metallic ringing so loud you feel nauseous. Then the yelling starts. That inner monologue is angry, and it takes no prisoners. It screams at you, over everything else that you’re hearing at full volume. YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE FAILURE. YOU DON’T DESERVE TO STILL BE ALIVE. YOU CAN’T EVEN DIE PROPERLY, HOW DO YOU EXPECT TO LIVE? 

You drift in and out of consciousness while the medication being pushed through your veins starts to work. The volume inside decreases, and if you’re lucky, a tiny fire is lit in the brassiere. The anger subsides, and you promise yourself that you will do better. You feel ashamed and embarrased, but the fire warming you convinces you that you will survive, and thrive. That hideous ticker tape retreats back into the dark annals of your subconscious, but it takes those angry, bitter, ashamed, thoughts with it to save for a rainy day. 

You apologise profusely to your loved ones, you promise your numerous doctors that it won’t happen again; but you know deep down somewhere inside of you that suicide is a disease, and the only cure is death. It becomes dormant, you smell flowers and love and giggle with friends, but it’s always there, ready to spread through you when the timing is right. Thats when you hear the ringing in your ears…
Remember why your life is worth living. Bottle happiness, listen to every song that you love until you can sing every part, including the bass guitar. Accept and be thankful for complements, and give them back tenfold. Look your loved ones in the eyes when you tell them you love them. Eat cake. Sleep in. Feel sand in your toes. Walk barefoot when possible, and store all of these beautiful thoughts and feelings away so that when the ticker tape starts, you have a fighting chance.

The Maker Makes

I have three daughters, aged 7, 4, and 10 months. As my beautiful ladies grow older and develop their own interests and personalities, I find that I’m discovering parts of myself in them. My biggest fear for them is that I will pass my poisons onto them, and not recognise that I’ve done it. 

When I was a child and even a teenager, not many people subscribed to the idea of childhood depression. Many people, my mother and father included, believed that the brain wasn’t capable of mental illness until after the age of 18, and also that “teenage angst” was a choice – not a symptom of mental stress. 

After discussing my youth in-depth with my psychiatrist and councillor, we mutually determined that I have been suffering from anxiety since childhood, major depressive disorder since my mid to late teens, and bipolar disorder stemming from around the same time. Looking back at those times in my life I can quite clearly see the signs and symptoms, which of course, seem obvious in retrospect. 

Now, as a mother in this new mental illness enlightened age, I worry for my girls- my eldest especially. Certified gifted, I was told that I may experience behavioural problems with her, and was giving a few books about “coping” with the gifted child. My amazing, hilarious, friendly, little L has trouble getting out of bed, especially if her dad is sailing. Prone to fits of rage, sometimes physically attacking me, sometimes not being able to eat. Happiness countered immediately with sadness, coupled with anger and obsession. 

It’s hard to deal with. 

I have my own emotional shitstorm to battle with every day, sometimes trying to deal with her is too much for me. I check out, lock myself in my head, and hope that the kids will engage autopilot before I crash the plane. But they deserve better. L needs my compassion, my understanding, my experience, but most days I’m just too tired to give it to her. We do battle on a daily basis. It’s hard on all of us. No matter what, I always try to validate her feelings. She is entitled to feel. Whether I agree with her or not, she gets to tell/yell her thoughts to me. I don’t know if it helps or hurts, but at this point I feel like she’s constantly on the cusp of exploding, but it seems like the yelling and stomping keeps her from diving over the edge  

I’ve read the books, the blogs, the listicles, the forums, and the truth is: I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing when it comes to my girls’ mental health. I have no clue. I barely have a grip on my own mental health, how am I supposed to be responsible for that of these precious beings? I’m terrified daily that I’m causing permanent emotional damage, or passing on my mental instabilities (or both). On the other hand, I don’t want to see symptoms in them that aren’t there. We all know what tricks the mind can play to spike our anxiety and send us spiralling. For now I’ll keep reading, keep fighting, keep cuddling, keep trying, keep failing. I owe them my best, even if some days my best is merely existing through the day. 

I need so desperately to protect them, but I can’t save them from themselves. Or, maybe I can. I wish someone had tried to save me.